Ophidia
by DemonicK
Summary: How do you fight an enemy you can't find? How do you take a stand against one of your own? The members of the Atlantis Expedition must find a way to do both– or be torn apart from the inside out. Warning: Violence
1. Teaser

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Tuesday, 24 July 2007**

Timeline: ATL S3: Pre-'Sunday'; immediately following SG-1's 'Dominion' (S10) Warnings: Violence (—_much_), some adult language  
Spoilers: ATL- Duet (small), The Long Goodbye (small); SG-1- Dominion

A/N: This is not a crossover; rather, it initially features scenes in the SGC before moving exclusively to Atlantis. I'm aware that the positions in the timeline don't exactly match up, but give me some leeway. The two shows never really match up anyways. Anyhow, the reader will benefit from having seen 'Dominion'; otherwise, there may be some confusion in the first few scenes.

It is worth noting that while this is a preview of the story, and involves many scenes from it, it is not identical material. It is instead, written fresh and with the sole purpose of being a teaser. Take that for what you will. :)

* * *

**Teaser**

* * *

He could sense someone over top of him. He tried to crack his eyelids open, to see who this was who would come so close. The doctors had been cautious, never giving him an opportunity like _this_. He tensed in anticipation, knowing he would not waste this. _Almost… almost…_

In a split second he struck— the man never knew what hit him. His victim struggled for a moment, before he was able to overcome him. Simple. So simple. Even easier than the last.

Taking a few moments for himself, he now surveyed the room he was in, openly. The pretense of being wounded past sensibility had grown old, but it was all that had kept him from closer inspection. Now, he had the freedom to do as he wished, without scrutiny. As it was, he found this place uninteresting, and was eager to leave, before he aroused suspicion.

Taking one glance down at the form now laying beside him— they were coughing up blood— he grinned. _Good riddance_.

With that, he strode from the room, with none the wiser.

* * *

It took a moment, for the feeling to truly return to his limbs— the excruciating pain in his head distracted him from it long enough for him to fall on his face. McKay tried to catch himself, only to remember that his hands were bound, and instead, crashed unceremoniously to the floor.

Groaning, he tried to push himself up, trying not to _whimper_. _Oh God, oh God,_ he kept repeating in his head. Everything that had gone wrong, everything _because of him!_ How could he have let this happen? With shaking limbs, he held himself up off the floor, afraid that any moment now his arms would give out and he would be right back where he started. Whatever had been pumped through his system before, it had left him worst off, like he was coming down off a high. Trying to squelch that thought, McKay clenched his eyes shut.

Maybe that was why he suddenly noticed the choked sounds coming from Sheppard. Inhaling sharply, he looked up to see Sheppard, hands also secured with a zip-tie, but sitting on his knees. With macabre and terrified fascination, he watched Sheppard twitch a few times as he recovered from the trauma of it himself.

All of a sudden, Sheppard's eyes shot open, and immediately found McKay's. A sense of dread washed over the scientist at the expression on his teammates face. _The knife!_ Suddenly remembering the KA-BAR sitting between them, he dove for it.

He didn't even see what hit him, only feeling something collide with the side of his face, snapping his head back, and sending him tumbling to the side. Once more in dazed agony, he didn't even try to get up, wondering through the fog of pain if his neck was broken.

A second intense blow suddenly impacted his stomach, and he let out a cry, doubling up on himself. _Apparently not_, he was able to think, trying to focus his eyes on the blurry figure standing over top of him.

* * *

Sheppard strolled out of the infirmary, pausing only to glance at Dr. Beckett as he went by. A half second later, he settled into long strides once more, thinking of all the places and possibilities open to him.

Actually… what was the rush? He had time for plans later, especially with McKay unconscious— and under suspicion. True, the responsibilities laid on him were heavy enough that, over time, it could be difficult to enact anything. But for now, his 'team' was grounded in Atlantis. A day or so would be enough, and he could use the time _after_ for his work.

It was, perhaps, an hour later that found him in the gym with Teyla. In one lightning quick series of blows, Teyla attacked his shoulder and ribs—

And just as fast, Sheppard knocked them away, sending her weapons wide and using the opportunity to deliver a sharp jab of his own into her diaphragm. In a second, the woman was lurching forward, gasping for breath.

She could not recall the last time Sheppard had landed so painful a blow on her, and glanced upwards, seeing a slight smile on his face. "You okay? Didn't hit you too hard, did I?"

Teyla willed up a smile of her own. "No— I am well," she said, stretching back upwards, though the muscles in her abdomen tightened in protest. "You have been practicing," she commented.

He inclined his head towards her. "Had to get you back for all those training sessions _one_ day. Ah," he said, waving one hand, "Don't worry about it, it was a lucky fluke."

"Perhaps," she said, settling back into another stance. "We shall have to continue, to be sure, then."

The smile on his face became a fully fledged grin. "If you insist."

Another round of blows was exchanged— Teyla spotted an opening where he left his side unprotected, where, were this a real fight, she could do some real damage. Normally, she would hold such a blow, just to give him an equal chance… however, she could still feel the tightness across her stomach, and darted in, landing the stick up under the edge of his ribcage.

To her astonishment, Sheppard didn't flinch to the side as she expected. The only sign that he had taken the blow was a short grunt that she had little time to register as he stepped in towards her, his own stick catching her across the shoulders.

Already off balance, Teyla found herself lurching again, only this time, Sheppard helped her along, and the world spun over her, until she landed flat— and _hard_— on her back. A shout of pain escaped her throat, and for a few seconds, she just laid there.

Sheppard's face appeared to eclipse the overhead light. "Guess it wasn't a fluke." His grin faltered a little though, as he seemed to sense her annoyance.

Pushing herself up, Teyla tried to will it away. He had landed a handful of blows on her— which meant he was _improving_. It was nothing to be angry about. So why did she find herself upset with him? "It was impressive," she finally admitted. "I might suggest you save some of your zeal for our enemies, however," she added, her voice slightly admonishing.

Sheppard seemed unfazed. "So… Ronon?"

Teyla's lips were pressed into a thin line, but there were hints of amusement in her expression. Secretly, she hoped that Ronon would knock Sheppard as flat as he had done to her. "Perhaps," she said.

The colonel gave her one last smile, before replacing his sticks from the container they had come from and departing the gym. The Athosian woman paused to watch him go, wondering what sat so ill at ease with her about their sparring practice— why did his cheerful attitude upset her like this? One of the same qualities that made her so like the colonel was now agitating her, more than mere begrudgement for the loss of the match. And yet, as she thought it over, she realized that Sheppard had not mentioned McKay once.

* * *

"Unscheduled off-world activation," the Gate-technician on duty announced over the PA. General Hank Landry moved to stand over his shoulder, watching the Stargate spin up.

"Who's calling?"

The sergeant attending to the console took a moment, before turning to look up at the general. "It's Atlantis, sir."

"Atlantis?" he mused, his eyebrows knitting into an expression of confusion. He looked up, unconsciously counting the chevrons as they began to glow the familiar orange. Sure enough, eight were lit, as the vortex exploded outwards, pulling back into what appeared to be a large, blue pool of water, or similar. "About time."

"We're receiving one of their IDCs, sir."

Landry made a noise of slight amusement. The IDCs from Atlantis were a bit of a redundancy. The eight chevrons were a clue, and it wasn't as if there were many 'Gates in other galaxies that could reach Earth. However, in this circumstance, he wasn't sure it was redundant enough. "Atlantis," he said, leaning down to the radio microphone. "We were starting to get worried. SG-5 is standing—"

The voice that responded sounded panicked and harried. "_Yeah, that's great and all, but we really don't have time for pleasantries!_"

Landry exchanged a baffled look with Sergeant Harriman, before glancing back down at the Stargate. "Dr. McKay?"

"_Yes,_" the voice said, sounding exasperated. It sounded as if he started to say something else, but an explosion cut him off.

"McKay! What's going on?" Landry demanded, gripping at the edge of the control console. In the background he could hear yelling.

"_Shit, the shield's out! General!_" McKay's voice broke through again. "_We need you to close your iris_!"

Harriman hesitated; "But the IDC—"

"_**Screw**__ the IDC!!_" Startled by the man's angry scream, the sergeant hastily slapped his hand onto the button that would close the iris. Those in the SGC's control room stopped what they were doing, momentarily distracted.

Harriman was the only one moving, as another signal appeared on the screen. Landry looked over again. "What is it?"

"It's the same IDC, sir," he replied softly.

Landry's eyes narrowed. "Someone's checking to see if the door is open."

The radio sprung to life again. In the background, people were still calling to one another.

"_Where is it?_"

"_I __**don't know**__, it's __**invisible**_!"

"_Someone get that shield back up! And make sure those doors stay locked!_"

"Atlantis, _what_ is your situation?" Landry demanded, all amiability gone from his voice.

"_Hold that thought, we're kind've busy at the moment_," McKay replied, and Landry grit his teeth.

Someone else rebuked the scientist before the general got the chance. "_Rodney!_" Then, louder, as if they had moved closer to the microphone, "_General, this is Weir. It's not safe for you to accept any travelers from Atlantis just yet— __**or**__ send any._"

Landry frowned at that. "Dr. Weir, if there's a problem, SG-5 is ready to go."

"_I'm afraid that wouldn't be much help,_" Weir said, sounding distracted. "_We're currently—_"

A second, much louder explosion drowned her out— this time, they could hear screams, both of fear and pain, and the crashes of debris, before abruptly, the radio cut out.

There was a second of silence before Landry shot Harriman a tense look. "Well? Get them back on the line!"

"I'm trying, sir," he said, his fingers working at the keyboard furiously for a moment, before he pulled his hands back, making a gesture of helplessness.

The general continued to stare at the technician, before turning his eyes to the 'Gate. A few seconds later, the connection gave out, and the blue light cast around the room disappeared. The iris began to automatically retract, and slowly, the technicians in the control room resumed their tasks, though with a notable air of anxiety.

All General Landry could do was to continue to watch the empty Stargate, and sigh.


	2. Snake in the Grass

**Ophidia   
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic   
Wednesday, 25 July 2007**

* * *

**Chapter 1- Snake in the Grass**

* * *

"Be careful with that! _Ow!_ Easy up there, Sweeney _Todd_."

The doctor on call looked somewhat less than impressed with her whining patient. "Kindly stop terrorizing the medical staff, Dr. McKay." She brought up a penlight into his right pupil, which he irritably batted away. Gently seizing his hand, she brought it up again. "And hold still."

"You're a regular Florence Nightingale," he said, dryly.

"Wrong profession," was her response, before she pulled the penlight away, satisfied.

"Ex_cuse_ me," he started, voice laden with sarcasm, "I didn't— _ow!_ Look, that's a very large and important brain you're trying to lobotomize up there— will you _stop that_?" he said, twisting around to swat at the hands of the nurse trying to bandage a wound on the back of his head.

"I'd love to," he muttered, pulling his hands away, but the doctor gave him a wry look that made him return— begrudgingly— to the task at hand.

She didn't miss the irony of it, though— if they actually _did_ stop, the scientist would only whine that much harder about his wounds going untended and probably throw in something about violating the Hippocratic Oath.

McKay shot the nurse a dirty glare as he stepped back around to press a piece of gauze to a small, yet stubbornly profuse wound, eliciting another cry of protest. "Hey, ham-hands—"

"_Doctor__ McKay_," the doctor said, looking up from some paperwork with a warning glance. "You can be a hypochondriac or you can have a low threshold for pain, you don't get _both_."

"All right, all _right_. Where's Carson, anyways?" he sniped, face screwed up into a scowl— conveniently choosing to forget that Dr. Beckett was never as gentle as he would like anyhow.

"On Earth." For her part, the on-call doctor finished jotting some notes in a file on her desk— a file that was probably the thickest of any member of the expedition.

McKay obviously wasn't in as much pain as he wanted them to believe, as he caught on to the doctor's reply. "Whoa, whoa whoa wait— _Earth?_ What's he doing _there?_"

She couldn't help but let out a bemused noise. "The chief medical officer at the SGC asked for his assistance with something."

"Hell of a long way to go for a second opinion," he muttered.

"Hm." She gave him an appraising look, before turning to hand the file to an orderly. "You don't seem to have a concussion, and the cut itself is very small, despite the blood. It's to be expected from a head wound," the concluded, pulling off her latex gloves. "Just avoid the edges of desks in the future?" And with that, she left McKay; that he should leave was implicit, apparently, as none of the medical staff continued to attend him.

_Just as well_, he thought, sourly, rubbing at the gauze now taped awkwardly to the back of his head, through the hair, before sliding off of the infirmary bed he had been perched upon.

* * *

"Oh, forgot to say this earlier," a female doctor said in passing to a man nearby, who was pulling a stethoscope from around his neck. "Sorry that you ended up coming for nothing."

The man gave her an amused glance; when he spoke, it was with a mild Scottish accent. "Nothing? I'd hardly call this nothing."

She gave him a dry smile from the next bed over. "You know what I meant. It's not as if I'm ungrateful for the help," she added.

"And glad to help, I am, Dr. Lam," he said, bending to place the diaphragm of the instrument against one man's chest. The same man had suffered severe burns earlier that same day; he seemed to be stabilized, though, and his heart rate had returned to normal.

"All the same, I'd like to apologize for sending you the urgent call. I know how much you dislike leaving Atlantis." The softer tone her voice took as she leaned over to tend to the next patient over was not lost on him.

And, truth be told, Dr. Beckett _didn't_ like to leave Atlantis. True— he missed Earth, and often. But Atlantis was home, and moreover, in the City… you didn't go home for the night. The responsibility didn't pass off to someone else. Sure, you went to sleep, went off shift, but when there was an emergency, it affected and was attended by _everyone_. It was so much more personal, and leaving tended to feel like he was walking out in the middle of the day, with patients still needing care.

Nevertheless… He smiled at her, reassuringly. "Sometimes a change of scenery is nice," he told her, pulling the earpieces of the stethoscope out and replacing the instrument around his neck. And that was true too. "And it's not as if I'm not going right back there in a few hours," he added.

Lam nodded to him. "I honestly thought we'd have a bit of a more 'high-profile' patient on our hands, though."

"Careful what you wish for," he said, trying not to laugh. To be honest, he was moderately relieved that the Odyssey had returned without their target. Of course, he was aware of the loss that had resulted from this was incredible, but all the same… Wraith were bad enough. A human with the powers of an ascended being, and as the recent reports seemed to indicate, one that had been possessed by a parasitic Goa'uld— though Lam had asked him there specifically to help tend to the same, some things, he was more than willing to admit, were a bit outside his scope of expertise.

As it was, the Odyssey and her crew hadn't escaped entirely unscathed. Angry Jaffa had pursued the ship that had stolen their leader, accosting them and demanding his return. Of course, by then, the Goa'uld had been dead, and his host ascended. The resulting shipboard battle was what had left so many in critical condition, some bad enough that the Odyssey had stopped at a nearby planet to gate the worst back to the SGC. Beckett had figured, since he was there…

"This one seems to be healing really well," Lam commented, bringing Beckett back to reality. She rose from where she had been stooped, stretching her shoulders. "I've got some paperwork I need to finish."

Beckett nodded. "Go right ahead. I'll keep a watch out here."

She gave him a grateful look, heading for her office. "Oh," she said, catching herself at the doorway. "Run Mitchell off if he comes down here again. This area's supposed to be isolated until these people can get their MRIs."

"Should I tell him you're indisposed, then?" he called after her, correctly guessing the real reason she suspected Lt. Col. Mitchell might come by, as evidenced by the blush spreading across her face.

"Tell him," she said, deliberately ignoring his question, "that I don't care what rank he is; this is my infirmary, and he doesn't get to ignore my rules."

* * *

Beckett was halfway through a final check for the hour— someone had started coughing up blood, _again_— when he noticed a grey-uniformed person leaning in the doorway to the back room.

"Colonel Mitchell," he said, his voice somewhat devoid of pleasantness. "I ought to have known you'd be back."

Mitchell leaned forward, before taking a step forward. "You don't look that happy to see me."

Not letting himself be distracted, he continued his work. "Dr. Lam was rather irritated when you came down here three hours ago. I'm not looking forward to telling her you got in again."

"Ouch," he said, chuckling. "Okay, I deserved that."

The doctor gave him a disapproving look. "It's called containment for a reason, son, and you've broken it twice now. She won't see you, you know," he added.

"Ah," Mitchell said, "that's okay. I'm actually here to see _you_. Not like that," he added hastily, at the strange look Beckett gave him. "_Actually_, any doctor would do, but I think you'd be the best. I was in a lab with Carter and one of the science monkeys broke something— cut himself open," he said, gesturing helplessly. "Anyways, he doesn't think it's bad enough to come to the infirmary, and… well, Brightman's not exactly a people person…" he said, waving one arm back towards the main infirmary, letting the implicit question hang.

Beckett considered for a moment, before nodding. "All right, just let me finish up here, and I'll go take a look at it."

Mitchell nodded in reply, grinning. "Great."

* * *

"So what exactly did he cut himself on?"

"Hell if I know what he was playing with," Mitchell said, unfazed by his lack of knowledge. "All I saw was the blood everywhere and him cussing up a storm."

Beckett pressed his lips into a thin line. Triage was obviously not a lesson widely taught in the SGC. He'd have to mention it to Lam, later— but then, he'd noticed that those people willing to work for the Stargate project, whether in the SGC or on Atlantis, tended to be enthusiasts enough to ignore their own health when they had found something particularly interesting.

Finally coming to a stop in front of a lab door, Mitchell opened it, gesturing for Beckett to go through first. Thanking the colonel, he stepped through, his eyes adjusting to the dimmer light.

The door clicked shut behind them. However, Beckett ignored it, taking one good look around the lab. "Alright, so where's the emergency?" he asked; there was no one there.

"What?" Mitchell asked, stepping past Beckett into the room. "No, he was right over here, see?" he said, indicating one of the workbenches.

Beckett walked up next to him to get a better view— but never got the chance to look it over. A sudden, blinding pain exploded across his left temple, and he was dimly aware of hitting the floor. Someone pulled him up roughly, before shoving him against the wall, where he collapsed again, but this time managed to remain sitting upright.

The doctor had to put his hands out to steady himself, and tried to force his eyes to focus on his attacker. He didn't have to try long, as the person in question squatted directly in front of him.

"Colonel Mitchell? What the hell are you doing!" Beckett started, trying to push himself into a standing position once more. The M9 that Mitchell trained on him convinced him to do otherwise. The whole thing seemed impossible— he and this man had met just hours ago, what could he have done to provoke _this_? Of course, that was ridiculous, Beckett though, trying and failing to remain rational and in control. Something had to be wrong with the Lt. Col. He wouldn't be acting like this otherwise… The doctor swallowed hard.

Smirking, Mitchell holstered the gun; Beckett was far from relieved. He was certain that Mitchell didn't need the weapon to cause damage, and the soldier knew it.

"What are you doing?" he repeated, forcing a sense of calm he didn't have into his voice, as the other man began rummaging in a pocket. The controlled façade fell away, however, as Mitchell produced a syringe, and Beckett's eyes went wide.

"Worried about what might be inside?" The smile on the man's face was perhaps the most unsettling of all. It wasn't the expression of a deranged or hallucinating man. Mitchell seemed not only in his right mind, but was actually _enjoying_ this— and it just made him that much more dangerous. "Don't worry too much," he said, rolling up his own sleeve.

The action made Beckett strain to see the label on the syringe— a sedative. _Just what is going on?_ he thought wildly. The action was incongruous enough, that maybe— and he grabbed at this small piece of hope tightly— Mitchell really was out of his mind. Still somewhat in shock, it was the only thing that he could think of. Deciding to give this theory a try, he raised a placating— shaking— hand.

"Colonel… think about what you're doing… something is—"

"Obviously wrong with me, _right_?" Mitchell said, eyeing Beckett, before jerking forward. Beckett instinctively flinched away, making the soldier laugh. The lunge had been nothing but a feint. "Didn't I tell you not to worry?" he said, sounding for all things like one friend admonishing another. "I have no plans to hurt you," he said, pulling the cap off and inserting the tip of the needle into a vein in the crook of his elbow.

"After all," he continued— his voice suddenly reverberating with a strange double quality, and eyes glowing as if by some inner light— "You're going to get me into the fabled Lost City."


	3. Unseen

**Ophidia   
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic   
Thursday, 26 July 2007**

A/N: I'm glad to see I've picked up a few regular readers— to which I'd like to say, thank you. :) It means a lot to know someone likes my work.

Second off, my intention was to keep to a daily schedule on this one— unfortunately, a weekend trip is going to make my computer access: nil. On the other hand, there are still notebooks and pencils (which haven't become completely obsolete yet :D); on the downside, no new updates 'til Monday evening.

* * *

**Chapter 2: Unseen**

* * *

"_Colonel… think about what you're doing… something is—"_

"_Obviously wrong with me, right?" Mitchell said, eyeing Beckett, before jerking forward. Beckett instinctively flinched away, making the soldier laugh. The lunge had been nothing but a feint. "Didn't I tell you not to worry?" he said, sounding for all things like one friend admonishing another. "I have no plans to hurt you," he said, pulling the cap off and inserting the tip of the needle into a vein in the crook of his elbow._

"_After all," he continued— his voice suddenly reverberating with a strange double quality, and eyes glowing as if by some inner light— "You're going to get me into the fabled Lost City."_

* * *

Beckett had only a second to register this, before he realized what it meant. By then, though, it was too late, and some black and writhing _thing_ burst from the back of the colonel's neck, leaving him to fall forward, screaming, barely catching himself on his hands and knees.

Revolted, the doctor scrambled backwards from the creature, which had landed on the floor. Instead of slithering or something similar as he might have expected, it seemed to coil up on itself before leaping straight at him— he tried to jerk away, batting his hands out in front of him, ultimately tripping and falling backwards— but a searing pain tore through the back of his neck, and the muscles in his body seemed to lock up.

All of a sudden, it was over— the pain was gone, and Beckett had a moment to wonder what had just happened, when he realized he was moving. His body, rising on its own. His legs, moving without him wanting to. The bile would have risen in his throat, had he still been in control of it. As it was, a second voice seemed to sound in his head— laughing at how pathetic he was.

Colonel Mitchell, too, seemed to realize what had just happened, as he gave Beckett a haggard, frightened look. The doctor could feel his lips twist into a smirk, so similar to what he had seen on the soldier's face not a minute before, and regretted ever thinking Mitchell could have attacked him.

Mitchell, on the other hand, tried to rise, stumbling towards an emergency phone on the wall. The sedative was beginning to take effect on his body however, and Beckett found, to his dismay, that he was following after the man.

In one quick motion he slammed his elbow across the back of Mitchell's head, prompting a sharp cry of pain from him as he staggered into the hard concrete wall. Dismay turned to horror as Beckett involuntarily seized a hold of the hair on the back of Mitchell's head, smashing his face into the wall; Mitchell seemed to crumple after that, and when Beckett discarded his limp form by tossing it to the side, there was blood on the wall. His eyes found his hands, which had blood on them as well.

Like he was just stepping out from treating some patient, Beckett found himself walking to a sink embedded in a nearby counter. He tried to stop himself, but he couldn't make even the smallest of muscles move in a way he wanted them to. He couldn't even work his own mouth. Instead, he stood there, quietly washing his hands, while the colonel moaned softly on the floor. Finishing up, he turned to look at Mitchell, who looked to be struggling with something— he was fighting to sit up, and moreover, to stay conscious.

Appalled at what he had witnessed— no, what he had _done_— Beckett struggled himself, trying to kneel, to tend to the wounds that… that _he_ himself had inflicted. But nothing, not even a twitch, came of it. The _thing_, the other presence in his mind, laughed again as Mitchell finally succumbed to injury and anaesthesia.

Beckett wanted to scream, wanted to rage, wanted to fight it. But he couldn't— felt, somehow, crushed, held down, hollowed out. It was if the creature that was now walking him calmly out of the science lab had stolen not only his body, but his ability to think and feel as well— and he was helpless to stop it.

* * *

"Carolyn." Lam started, not expecting Beckett's voice. She spun her chair to face the door, which he was ducking into.

"Dr. Beckett? Is something the matter?"

He gave her an apologetic smile. "No, but it's about time for me to go."

Her brow crinkled, confused. "Already?" she asked, aware that she was starting to sound petulant.

He inclined his head towards her. "Aye, I must take my leave of you." Again, he cast her an apologetic look, but she waved it off, rising to her feet.

"All right then," she replied, feeling a bit reluctant to see him go; she had, actually, enjoyed working with the man. "Well, thank you again for all your help."

"Any time," he assured her, prompting Lam to raise one eyebrow.

"Careful what you promise, Carson, or else I might just take you up on that." She followed him out of the door of her office, pausing by the back room with their latest charges. "They all came up clean on their MRI's, you might like to know," she added.

Beckett nodded. "That's good to hear." A little smile played across his face. "Well, I really must be going. It was a pleasure working with you," he said by way of farewell, before striding out the infirmary doors, headed for the elevator— and after that, Atlantis.

* * *

"Carson!" Dr. Elizabeth Weir did not usually come all the way down from the Control Center to the Gateroom floor to greet incoming travelers, but this was an exception. She gave a cordial smile to the man who had just come through the Stargate, a single duffel in his hand. He was currently taking a look out the window, at the sun setting over the edge of the ocean and city. The view always amazed her, now matter how many times she saw it— so she kindly waited until he was done, before striking up conversation. "How did things go?" she asked, her voice dropping in volume as she came up next to him.

The doctor's mouth twisted into a somewhat ironic smile, as he turned from the window and started to move for the exit, Weir falling into step beside him. "They didn't. _Not_ that I'm complaining," he added, and Weir couldn't keep her smile from becoming wider at the tone of relief in his voice. "But there _were_ some critical patients in the aftermath that I was able to help with. That made the trip worth it," he said with a grin, coming to a halt in front of the transporter that would take him up towards the infirmary.

Weir stopped as well, tilting her head at Beckett curiously. "Nothing else interesting happened?" she asked, a hint of laughter in her voice.

Beckett regarded her with a slight smile of his own. "Afraid not," he said after a moment.

"Well," she said, accepting that, "it's good to have you back." With a pat on the shoulder and final nod of farewell, she headed back the way she had come, returning to her duties. Beckett watched her go.

He made a noise of appraisal, before turning back to the transporter. It had been simple enough, hadn't it? Pitifully so. The City, on the other hand, reacted strangely to him, as if possessing some sentience that intuitively knew something was not the same— it was a strange presence on the edge of his consciousness, one he likely would not have noticed had he not been so accustomed to such _presences_. The doors to the transport hesitated before opening for him, and his eyes narrowed... Nothing further out of the ordinary happened as he stepped in, however. Shaking his head, he stepped up to the panel at the back of the small room.

For a moment, his finger lingered over a dot which he knew would take him closest to the infirmary. But then the knowing smile returned, and he made a clucking noise, before pressing a different one entirely— one which would have him emerge several levels lower.


	4. Out of Control

**Ophidia    
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic    
Thursday, 26 July 2007**

A/N: Wow, I'm sorry! I wanted to get this up earlier, but I kept writing and writing… I didn't know quite where I wanted to stop this section, and so, this got out a little later in the day than I would have liked. On the plus side, I have two chapters for you today. ;)

Thanks for being so patient over the weekend! I'll be back to my daily schedule, forbidding an act of God or Parents. ;D

* * *

**Chapter 3: Out of Control**

* * *

_For a moment, his finger lingered over a dot which he knew would take him closest to the infirmary. But then the knowing smile returned, and he made a clucking noise, before pressing a different one entirely— one which would have him emerge several levels lower._

* * *

He continued to smile to himself, even starting to hum a little, as he strode down the corridors. Deep within, he felt the panic of the original, and instead of pushing it back down, fed it. _You know what comes next, don't you? This is why you are so important to me, pathetic little one. Your sole purpose._

He let his lips curl up into a hard smirk, relishing the feeling. It was so… _cathartic_… to feel the fear of the other, to truly _experience_ it, even if only infinitesimally. To simply know such a feeling came from his domination! The sensation could have made him giddy— it had been so _long_ since he'd had such a host! It fed him and he toyed with it, knowing that it made him the stronger being. For a second, he inflated the emotion, overwhelming his host, before taking it all away, laughing internally once more. He could feel the creature's sudden emptiness, felt as it floundered in its own emotions and thoughts, lost and helpless. _Such_ _fun_… he seemed to hiss to himself. But amusing as this trivial being was, he had more important things to tend to.

He came round a corner, seeing before him the object of his desire. Slowly, he walked up to it, stepping onto the platform surrounding it. He traced his fingers over its hard edges and down into the softness of the interface.

The contact seemed to stir the host's memory, bringing with it a sense of anger and denial, something which surprised him. And being surprised in such a way _angered_ him— _You are __**mine**__ to control!_ he told the other, roughly pushing its consciousness away, locking it down tightly.

Such treatment, he knew, could damage the host— many of his kin did so deliberately, simply to be rid of the disgusting little minds that dared to contend with their own. He found it stimulating to leave _his_ others in tact… however…

_I am in control_, he repeated to himself, aware that the host could now not hear him. _He_ was the master here, and that this pitiful slave had for even the slightest second, even only mentally, been out from under his control… The thought angered him further. _You will pay for that_, he whispered to his new host, quiet assurance that he had plenty of focus for both his plans and the mind of the original. _You will pay, little one._

* * *

Within a dark recess of his own mind, Beckett wanted to curl into a ball, to shake, to cry— _anything_ to prove he was still himself. But that meant having a body— it meant being more than an afterthought of some other entity that had stolen who you were.

At first, it had merely taken control. _Merely_. …This was _mere_? He couldn't understand the irony of it, not anymore. Because it had taken that. It had pushed him, pushed his fear, until he was over his own limits, then taken it all away, leaving him in little more than a numb, dumbfounded haze.

Then he had seen it. The chair. It hadn't been real until he had felt it under his own fingertips, but it had been enough for a moment of clarity, a moment for him to say, _No!_ That this _thing_ would sit in the chair, use him to interface with it— the idea of this creature's mind having free access to Atlantis brought something of his spirit back, made him try to resist it.

And it had retaliated… _this_… This was what made the control he had so abhorred seem _mere_. It had left him with nothing, allowed him _nothing_— giving him no more than a few words and enough dread to give them meaning. How long he spent like this was impossible to tell.

But with a sudden burst that felt like electricity was running through his head, Beckett surged back into awareness, stunned for a moment by the surge of his own returning being.

* * *

The incredible rush very nearly overwhelmed him— the presence in his mind was so like that of a host's, and yet… As he had felt it before, the slightest of sensations brushing against him as he walked through the City, he had _never_ imagined it like this. So like the mind of a host, and yet, so different. So complex, so foreign.

As his initial amazement died, it began to occur to him that all was not as it should be. Oh yes, this connection was familiar— to his host and thus to him— but the City had not opened itself to him as it should have. He knew he had the strength to work within Atlantis, to control it in its every capacity, but he felt impeded…

And this too was familiar to him. Where his host had failed, he too had failed; while the connection was established and he could feel it at the fringes of his being, the rest was out of reach and would not come when he beckoned. He tried to force the connection to bend to his will, but it would not… or perhaps, could not…

Turning his mind to that of his host's, he was a bit shocked to find it aware once more, trying to pry at the edges of his own. Such intrusions were insignificant, would never succeed, and yet— how had the host reawakened itself? Probing gently, so as not to alert the other to his presence, he discovered that Atlantis had connected too with _this_ mind— it was, in fact, _through_ its mind that the City connected to him. The original seemed to exercise no power over the system, not while he was using it, but it was a curious side effect— and, admittedly, an alarming one. A dozen possibilities occurred to him— was it the host, blocking him? Why was _it_ in between himself and the City? Why wouldn't the chair, now activated, touch his mind directly? Suddenly angry again, he tore at the other's link to the Ancient city, before he found himself reeling as well, caught halfway between reality and within Atlantis.

His body gasping, he lurched forward— the unwanted motion was not improved upon by the movements of the chair, which reset itself to an upright position after the connection to Atlantis was severed. As such, he was halfway to the floor before he caught himself on one hand and knee.

_What happened?_ he wondered, unaccustomed to being so manipulated. He had attempted to remove his host's mind from the system, yet had ended up removing them both.

_Atlantis happened,_ was the weary reply he had not expected.

Instantly, he silenced the original, but the words had already been put forth— and the effort required to do so was intense— he had never _felt_ such exhaustion, physically _or_ mentally. Scrutinizing the presence that still lingered next to his, he saw similar effects, though dissolving away even as his own did. _So it was not you who did this_. It brought relief, in the fact that the City would not allow his little one to take the forefront in their union. Unnerving was the fact that he still did not know what went wrong. His eyes turned back to the chair behind him, and he seated himself on the floor to view it.

Diving inwards, he ransacked his host's memories and knowledge, but found little there, little more than he had already acquired. It knew next to nothing of the systems of the City, even less about how they worked. _Was it a failsafe? Or the system is merely incompatible with a duel mind…_ He pondered the idea of it… He would, perhaps, have to do away with the original after all. Regretfully, of course, as he could still derive endless entertainment from it. _But if it is necessary,_ he added, letting the words roll through and hang over the other. Of course, he could have forced fear upon it, but he found it so much more enjoyable when genuine— and was not disappointed. All the same, he could not help but feel a hint of anxiety, worried that the original might be right. Had Atlantis itself rejected him, sensing all was not as it had been? If so, it was possible he could _never_ gain access to its inner systems.

A thought started to form in the other's consciousness in reaction to his own, and he pounced upon it, not allowing his host to pull it away. He took it in, before regarding the other with suspicion. It did not believe he would achieve anything here— and the certainty of its belief was enough to concern him.

Again, he plunged into the original's mind, deliberately leaving crippling pain in his wake. Normally, he would have taken his time— the other's mental writhing and anguish were interspersed by pleas and screams, which he would have so loved to play with. However, this time, he moved quickly, harshly, pushing aside the rest of it to bare the reason behind the original's sureness.

The gene. The gene of the Ancients, which he had needed to even activate the damned device. Though he had known his host lacked the ability to control the device, he had taken it for a mental incapacity— not a genetic inadequacy, a deficiency he could not circumvent. The earlier problem with the chair became crystal clear— _So, slave, the City will connect only with you, and __**not**__ directly to me._ He was not of its species, and thus, could not possess the gene required— it was impossible to interface with it directly. Aggravating though it was, it ensured the original's survival— which he could not admit to being upset to.

After all, he thought, he was the master of this creature _and_ its mind, mood improving as he tugged at the original's memories to make his point— a particularly upsetting one that he had found on his search, one in which the original had linked his mind to a weapon and very nearly killed others with it. His puppet's mind had become entwined with the destructive device— he snaked inwards, invading the memory, pushing the weapon's presence onto his host's and twisting it, overwhelming it with the now mixed desires to both save and destroy. As he pulled back, allowing the two to separate, he felt the original wash itself in self-loathing at the experience of being joined with a weapon; secretly, he laughed. Soon, it would be so much more. He would find a way— neither it nor Atlantis would stop that.

He spared one backwards glance at the chair. He would rule an empire from it.

_You are very lucky, my little one— _he informed the other, laughing at its revulsion. _I know it was not the City. I can keep you yet._

* * *

Some things were given in life. There was a natural order of things— a certain _flow_, if you would. Laws of physics could not be broken and common sense was generally followed, at least while self-interest was involved. Cars did not fly and people did not walk off of bridges— or try to drive cars off bridges in attempts to fly. Not normally, anyhow, such things were anomalies— inconsistencies, improprieties that should never have happened.

And while life in the Pegasus Galaxy had vastly shortened Rodney McKay's list of what counted as an _anomaly_ as compared to what was acceptable in everyday life, there were some things that still sent up red flags.

"What the hell?" he mumbled through half a sandwich, something strange appearing on a data readout he was investigating. Swallowing and wiping at his mouth with his sleeve, he leaned in closer to the computer screen. "Hey," he called across the room, leaning back some but keeping his eyes on the scrolling text. "Which one of you knuckleheads is playing with the command systems?"

A heavy East-European accent replied, "What are you talking about?"

Making a disparaging noise, McKay sat back, gesturing at the screen. "I'm talking about the integral systems of the City, and why they shouldn't be played with." He let his gaze then fall over the handful of people scattered across the room; for the most part, they had hesitated, staring at him anxiously. Idiots, every one of them— the _last_ thing they needed was for someone to play with something they shouldn't and accidentally shoot the environmental controls into oblivion or shut off the desalinization plants.

The man who had replied earlier came up behind him, turning the laptop slightly towards himself. "I don't think this is coming from here," he started, pushing his glasses further up his nose.

"What?" McKay said, incredulous. Then after a second, his eyes began to widen, taking in the data. "The hell?" he repeated under his breath, standing up in surprise, before attacking the keyboard— at the same time; "Radek, check power usage logs."

Confused, but not feeling like arguing the point, Radek Zelenka returned to his own station, taking a few seconds to call up the appropriate interface, running over it for a few seconds before gesturing helplessly. "What am I looking for?"

"For something that shouldn't be there," McKay shot back, still working furiously, trying to find any changes happening in the system.

Zelenka looked back at his screen; after a moment, his eyes caught on something that shocked him— he had to read it a second time to be sure he had done so correctly. "Rodney," he said at length, "it's coming from the chair room." He looked back up at his fellow scientist, who had a grim look on his face.

All of a sudden, Rodney stopped, confusion etched into his features.

"What, what is it?" Zelenka asked, coming around to look at McKay's screen again when the other man didn't answer him.

McKay shook his head, not understanding. "It stopped."

Zelenka frowned. "What did they do?"

The lead scientist furrowed his brow again; of all the anomalies and red flags out there, this one was topping his radar. Even after going over the text one more time, just in the infinitesimally small chance he was wrong, he came to the same conclusion. Making a noise of disbelief; "…Absolutely nothing."


	5. Entrapment

**Ophidia    
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic    
Thursday, 26 July 2007**

A/N: Again, thanks for your patience, and thanks for reading!

We return to the regular (singular) daily updates tomorrow. :)

* * *

**Chapter 4: Entrapment**

* * *

"Carson!"

His body turned to face the voice that had called his name— _his_ name, something that was still a part of him— it was getting harder and harder to hold on to that sense of self, as the _thing_ kept invading and violating his mind, controlling and crushing it, only to pull him away from the edges of blissful oblivion. _No_, it had purred to him, _you don't get to leave me so quickly_.

His hopes rose as he saw McKay coming up towards him— his own body paused, waiting for the scientist to catch up, before beginning to walk again, this time in step with the other man— oblivious to where his companion had just come from. _Rodney… look at me… look me in the eyes_, he begged silently, even as he started up idle conversation with him. If anyone could realize that something was wrong with him, it was McKay… But slowly, his hope began to fade— he could feel the other presence in his mind, looming over him, just watching him smugly. He tried to pull away, to curl in on himself like a child, anything to keep the creature at bay, but it tore at him anyhow, just to feel him squirm, forcing him to bare his thoughts to it once again. It held him down and peeled him apart with ease, ignoring what little resistance he managed to offer.

_Rodney_, he thought miserably, _why can't you see that it's not me?_ He felt himself laugh at something McKay had said, and wanted to throw up. _You're supposed to be a genius!_ Even as he thought this, a strange sensation crept along the edge of his awareness, going unnoticed at first.

_You're supposed to be able to figure out anything!_

It began to spread, persistent but still just under Beckett's consciousness, like an itch he was just starting to realize he had. Something started to seem wrong to him, but he couldn't place it. Now desperately, he continued his mental tirade, screaming at his friend.

_You fixed a giant laser, you blew up a solar system, and you know—_

With a sense of sickening realization, Beckett understood that he was being led, that the creature within him had deliberately held back, only carefully guiding his thoughts to what it wanted. He tried to retract them, to cut the words off before they came, but it was too late— in spite of his every effort, the thing drew the rest from him, slowly.

…_Every system in Atlantis… you can make anything work, know how every part of the city works… No one even compares…_

The immeasurable amount of triumph he suddenly felt from the creature blasted him back, and left him cowering. It laughed hysterically, having found its solution, not even bothering to torment him with this.

It didn't need to. Beckett started to quail under a flood of his own guilt. _What have I just done?!_

* * *

It was the middle of the night when the creature made its move— it didn't even attempt to hold him down this time, instead letting him experience everything freely, knowing there was nothing he could possibly do. It hadn't even toyed with his mind, not since it had taken the knowledge it needed from him. It merely let him be, let him wallow in despair and hatred for himself— he had just sold his best friend, betrayed someone he cared about!

He had pleaded with it. He had screamed at it. It ignored him.

"Rodney… Rodney!" The urgent, panicked tone of his voice might have been his own, but Beckett knew better. _Don't answer, don't answer, be asleep!_

The door slid open in front of him, and his heart sank. "Carson?" McKay asked, incredulously. "It's—" he paused to check his watch, bleary-eyed— "two a.m. and—"

"I know," he cut in brusquely, "but this is an emergency. I need you to come with me!" When McKay hesitated, his hand grabbed the man by the wrist, pulling him gently but firmly into the hall. The same kind of insistence he himself had produced in the infirmary on many an occasion… McKay suspected nothing. _And he won't,_ Beckett realized miserably.

Half way to the transporter, McKay stifled a yawn long enough to ask, "Where are we going?"

_Good boy, Rodney!_ Beckett couldn't help but think, but said instead, "We've no time, I'll explain when we get there." As his eyes slid over to McKay again, he saw the man finally yawn, unable to contain it any more, and couldn't help but feel a spike of disappointment. Half conscious as he was, even asking the right questions, there was no chance of McKay realizing that something was horribly wrong, not until… He couldn't finish the thought, couldn't accept in his mind what was about to happen.

McKay didn't even pay attention to what location he had selected in the transporter, merely shuffling after Beckett as the doors opened to a different location. Down the hall, he could see the eerie blue glow, growing closer. He dropped back, gesturing McKay forward— and all Beckett could get out was a choked _no,_ as the scientist walked straight into the creature's trap.

Something clicked with McKay as soon as he saw the command chair, and thought back to the strange activity they had seen earlier that day. The hairs began to rise on the back of his neck. "Carson, why are we here?" Instinctively, he trusted Beckett. Beyond a shadow of a doubt— but there were no people here. Why would the doctor possibly bring him to the chair room? Something wasn't right.

Beckett said nothing, merely standing in the doorway with a hint of a smile on his face. McKay backed away from him, but careful to stay between the other man and the chair.

"Who are you?" he finally demanded, his voice quiet.

"Rodney," Beckett replied, chidingly. "I know you're a heavy sleeper, but don't be stupid."

McKay's eyes narrowed, before widening in the realization that Beckett— or whoever this was— wouldn't have brought him down here without being able to control any resistance he might give. He searched the form of the man in front of him for a weapon, but found nothing— somehow, its absence was more alarming than its presence would have been.

However, Beckett started advancing on him slowly, and McKay began to back up. All of a sudden, he saw the doctor lunging forward, preceded by his fist— an instant later, lights seemed to flash across his vision and his jaw felt broken. Stumbling backwards, he tripped over the platform and collided with the hard edge of the command chair's armrest, and slumped to the floor, almost unconscious. For a moment, he felt dazed— _he hit me… He actually hit me!_ he said to himself, unable to comprehend Beckett's actions.

He felt someone's arms under his back and his head, pulling him away from the chair. Absurd as it was, its seemed someone was actually _cradling _him. Feebly, McKay tried to push away, but the person— Beckett, he could only assume— shifted his hold to pin both of McKay's arms. He felt his head being tilted to the side, and tried to struggle one more time, not understanding the incredible strength and ease Beckett had in restraining him.

A blinding pain exploded in the back of his head, and for a second, Rodney McKay was sure that someone had just stabbed him in the back of the neck. The scream that came from him was almost unearthly, and he contorted in agony, held down only by the person above him.

Beckett slumped forward, his body set almost into a state of shock— everything came crashing back into him with a sudden sharpness— McKay's screams seemed to deafen him, and he struggled to push himself off of the man as he writhed. All of a sudden, McKay stopped moving, and still suffering the after effects of the creature's departure from him, Beckett stared down at his friend in bewilderment. As the realization set in, however, he saw McKay staring coolly back up at him.

He lashed out with one arm, catching Beckett in the torso and expelling all of the air from his lungs— for a second, the doctor seemed to fly, then _skid_, across the room, his head slamming into the floor so hard it stole all semblance of consciousness from him.

For a moment McKay watched, expressionless, before a smile cracked his face, an unpleasant one that threatened painful things for Beckett. He rose easily, the pain in this body already sloughing away, though perhaps not so easily as it should have. And within, as this new one started to realize, started to struggle and scream, he felt somehow wearier. All the same, he crossed to Beckett, kneeling next to the man.

Carefully, he fingered the back of the man's neck— his scar still there, though faintly. Already, the fear from this one was surmounting his last one's— but still, he had grown fond of the emotions he had wrung from his last host. "Poor little one," he whispered, before affecting McKay's usual tone. "Too bad for you, huh?" Standing up once again, he turned to the command chair.

_Now it is your turn to serve me,_ he thought inwardly, reveling in the feeling as the new one shrank away from his massive presence. Stepping forward, that same arrogant look on his face as when he was performing one of his brilliant plans or experiments, McKay spun neatly, seating himself in the chair.

* * *

Perhaps McKay had gone to bed, but _he_ wasn't going to let this go so simply. Adjusting his glasses again, Zelenka ran his eyes over the same entry for what seemed like the thousandth time that night— _probably more than that_, he thought. Nothing had changed. He was tired, but, he was here. Keeping watch in the best way he could. Which was more than he could say for McKay, slothful lout—

Suddenly, a flicker of movement on the screen caught his attention, and he inspected it, his suspicions confirmed. Whoever had tried to access the chair earlier had returned. But this time, he was ready.

Sliding to another computer nearby, he double checked the command he had input earlier, before bringing his finger to hover over the enter key. Turning his head back to the first screen, he whispered as he dropped his finger, "_Gotcha_."


	6. Tension

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Tuesday, 31 July 2007**

A/N: Up a bit later than I had intended, but earlier than yesterday's at least. Also a bit longer than usual… I won't whine because I doubt any of you are honestly upset over that. :)

* * *

**Chapter 5: Tension **

* * *

_Sliding to another computer nearby, Zelenka double checked the command he had input earlier, before bringing his finger to hover over the enter key. Turning his head back to the first screen, he whispered as he dropped his finger, "Gotcha."_

* * *

Before, the system had presented itself to him, but would not open. _Now…_

He laughed. He laughed harder and more genuinely than he had ever— everything that had been before was nothing, compared to this single moment of triumph, as he felt Atlantis bloom open under his touch.

Yet, in an instant, it was gone. Staggered, he returned to reality, taking a moment to realize that he was seeing not the ethereal, invisible lines of power that had formed within his mind, but the an empty, dark room. Not even the pedestal on which the chair sat now glowed— enraged, he let out a single, feral scream. He leapt from the chair, spinning and kicking it— not even denting the strong material, despite his immense strength, something which only made him even more livid.

He felt the terrified thoughts of the other, tiny under his own storm of fury, and batted them away. Worthless creature, it too had failed! Would he _never_ gain access to this City? He had risked all and crossed out of his home galaxy, away from all allies and servants, for this, and yet at every step it was _denied to him!_

Within, he felt the original reel, before— aware of his scrutiny— it backed itself into a corner, trying to distance itself from him. With a hiss for the pitiful being, he left it alone this time, too focused on what had gone wrong this time to care about it.

Remembering the second man, he turned, ready to strike him down— and yet, the man was still unconscious on the floor.

McKay walked over and kicked him, eliciting not even a grunt or flinch. _Definitely unconscious_. This time, he was _sure_ someone else had interfered. It had been doing exactly as he wanted, but had ceased without warning. If not Beckett… Turning over the scientist's mind, disregarding the silent cry that went up from it, he glanced around the room again.

Power seemed to be out in here. A trap. His lips pulled a little to the side, a twisted smile. Someone had attempted to trap him in here. _So someone thinks me their equal?_ he asked of his host. He could feel the thought bubbling unconsciously from it, and grabbed at it, pulling it out— a name— _Zelenka… I think we need to visit this one,_ he remarked to his other.

Rodney, on the other hand, tried to yank himself away one more time, feeling the thing let him slip far enough away before it drew him back in, like a sick game. _This can't be happening, this isn't real…_ he chanted to himself, feeling more desperate with each repetition, because he knew it simply wasn't true. It wasn't a nightmare he would wake from. There was no escape. He couldn't understand it, couldn't see _how _it could have_ happened!!_ But happened it did…

As he felt himself move to a doorway, pausing only long enough to realize it was locked, before pulling off the panel. He hoped, for a second, that the thing would be trapped here— he would have shivered, had he been able, as the thing raked through his mind once again, in an instant knowing exactly what to do.

McKay deftly disabled the lock, but the door still did not open. Smirking, he stuck his fingers into the edge, and simply pulled the two halves apart.

To think that they could trap him. _Laughable_.

* * *

Zelenka fumbled for his radio, discarded an hour earlier as the hard plastic had annoyed him when had leaned the side of his head against the chair. Now cursing in Czech, he wondered what had possessed him to so casually toss the thing aside— sure, he may have been tired and wanting to rest, but this was—

"Aha," he muttered, triumphantly as he spotted it hidden in the shadow of a stack of papers on the desk next to his. Replacing it in his ear, he pressed the small button. "Elizabeth… Elizabeth!"

A few seconds later, a sleepy voice responded with, "_Radek?_" There was a pause, and then something that sounded like a moan; he suspected she had just checked the clock. "_It's a little late, don't you think?_"

"Yes, but this is important," he said, going back to his computer to ensure that the system was doing what it should. "Someone is using the chair without authorization."

"_What?_" Weir demanded, now sounding much more awake. "_What are they doing?_"

Zelenka made a small sound, thinking, _now that is the question_. "I am not sure what they are attempting, _but…_ I cut power to the room and locked the doors."

He heard the rustling of clothes in the background, as Weir responded, "_Good work, Radek. See if you can contact security and have them meet us down there._"

"Us?" he asked in surprise.

"_Us_," she confirmed. "_Someone's got to open those doors,_" she added with a bit of amusement.

The scientist paused for a moment in the resulting silence, before opening the radio frequency again. "Control Room?"

* * *

Gateroom duty was never interesting. Oh sure, during the day, when there were missions and wormholes and all that jazz it was _great_. As the technician on duty lounged back in his chair, he debated over whether he could put his feet up on the desk or not.

Seriously, nothing ever happened on the night shift. There was the occasional unscheduled returning team, but beyond that, _nada_. And this was the third week in a row he had been stuck on night shift. He noticed, as well, that the handful of _other_ techs in the room got rotated out every two weeks. He guessed this was just punishment for his blasé attitude and laidback demeanor— that, and, the one time he fell asleep on the morning shift. Honestly, though, they couldn't hold that against him _forever!_ He decided to go ahead and kick his legs up on the table in front of him— his closest coworker shot him a dirty look, but said nothing. Hey, he might as well _earn_ that punishment they were heaping on top of him.

He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he almost missed the call that came from one of the science labs. Startled by the sudden crackling of the radio, he jerked forward, pulling his feet back down and flailing for a moment— he flushed red at the not-so-subtle laughs coming from his fellow techs.

"Control room here," he said, sounding a little flustered.

Unfazed— or perhaps, not noticing— the person on the other end of the line went on. "_We need a security team to go down to the chair room, immediately._" In the background, he could hear fast-paced typing; a moment later, he shook himself from the distraction and tossed a glance over at those seated behind him. The amused air in the room had died as they heard the message. He nodded to one of them, and they got on a second radio frequency, quietly calling to the security team.

"Copy that," he told the person on the other end.

An indistinguishable grunt from the other end was the only acknowledgement he got. Figuring that was all the response he was getting, he was surprised yet again as a second later, the person added an afterthought: "_While you're at it— wake up Colonel Sheppard. He should be there too._"

The buzz of the radio ceased with a click, leaving a heavy silence. A security team was one thing. Waking up the commanding military officer lent a whole new level of tension to the situation in their minds. What was so important— and dangerous— as to require both Sheppard and a security team?

Breaking the silence, the tech tapped away at his screen, before bringing up the radio again. "Colonel Sheppard? This is the Control Room… Colonel?" He shook his head at no one in particular. "Not answering."

"Then go wake him up," was the answer he got back from the man sitting next to him. He gave him a look like he was crazy.

"_Control Room, this is Sheppard._" He wasn't the only one to jump this time as the call came in, but at least was able to get back to the mic fairly quickly.

"Colonel Sheppard," he started. "You're needed—"

"_In the chair room. Weir told me,_" he replied. The grim tone in the soldier's voice made the tech feel suddenly very cold, though the temperature in the room hadn't changed. "_Sheppard out._"

For a second time, the radio died out, leaving the Control Room devoid of sound and movement.

Swallowing hard, the tech suddenly decided that he was just fine with boring, uneventful shifts. Just fine.

* * *

With long, purposeful strides, each one taking him closer to the transport, Sheppard ran over the possibilities in his head. No one knew quite what was going on, but he'd be damned if he wouldn't find out. The idea of someone in the chair, screwing with Atlantis…

"Colonel!"

He paused for a moment, turning to see Major Evan Lorne coming up on him, flanked by three other men, two of whom were holding stunners. "Lorne," he replied evenly, trying to mask his confusion.

"Security detail," he replied, and gave a slight grin as the colonel tilted his head back in recognition.

"Oh… right."

"Don't suppose you know what's going on, sir?" Lorne asked hopefully, settling into stride with Sheppard, the three others following after. "All we were told is that we were needed in the chair room."

Frowning Sheppard shook his head. "Not much more than that— but it seems someone tried to take their ATA gene for a joyride."

A hiss of exhaled breath told Sheppard that the major had similar feelings on the subject. Both were among the few on the expedition who had the capability to use such technology— and that had to be moderated by some sense of responsibility. Having personally sat in a command chair, Sheppard knew firsthand the heady rush it could deliver. That kind of incredible feeling could get dangerous.

Which only made him that more determined to put a stop to this before it started.

* * *

Zelenka scrambled to get everything together, logging out of systems and shutting down computers. Leaving any of this unsecured would probably land him in just as much trouble as… well, as using the command chair without permission. He was leaned over the keyboard to the last computer, when he heard someone make a sound of amusement nearby.

Startled, he jerked his head up, exhaling loudly as he saw McKay.

The Canadian scientist smirked at Zelenka, chuckling. "Geez, Radek, I didn't know you scared so easily."

"What are you doing here?" he asked, growing irritated. In truth, he could feel his heart pounding in his chest, still— and he didn't appreciate the offhand manner in which McKay was treating him.

The other man waved off his concern. "I thought I'd help out with your little 'midnight watch'," he said, waggling his fingers with the last two words.

The Czech snorted at him. "Naturally. You're a little late," he added, returning to his screen as McKay strolled leisurely over. With a second glance upwards, he let a little _hmph._ "Actually, you're right on time— sleep half the night, then show up and take the credit," he muttered under his breath.

He was more than a little surprised to find McKay's hand close over his wrist. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

Taken aback; "Shutting down the interface."

"Why would you do that?" McKay's brash tone was familiar, but personally, Zelenka couldn't see what had brought it on this time.

"If you had been here," he said, sounding offended, "you would know someone has made unauthorized use of the command chair. _I_," he continued, "am on my way down to assist, at Elizabeth's request," with a somewhat practiced smile and an air of smugness he didn't really feel. Rather, as he tried to pull his hand away from McKay, he found the man's grip unyielding, and began to grow alarmed.

"I do know," he replied in a tone of voice that made Zelenka's smile fade. The sureness of the reply made him feel like ice was running through his veins, and almost instinctively, he tried to jerk his hand away.

McKay's arm barely moved in response, and he felt panic take him. He tried to pull away, a sharp pain starting in his shoulder and moving down his arm as he came up short again, but it didn't matter, anything to get further away from McKay. The Czech scientist tried to reach for his radio with his free hand, already starting to call for security, but his opposite was too quick for him, grabbing his other hand just as his fingers brushed against the hard plastic. He felt it slip off, and it clattered to the ground.

Zelenka was left with little time to contemplate this, as McKay began to bend his arms backwards, forcing Zelenka to his knees and then the ground with cries of pain. "Rodney… Rodney, _stop!_" he pleaded. Through tears, he could see the calm smirk on his contemporary's face, as if he were doing nothing more than proving one of the other man's theories wrong, and not breaking his bones.

The small smile broke into a fully-fledged grin, and with a single jerk of one of his hands, a sickly _crack_ came from Zelenka's right wrist, the other man's cries escalating in both volume and agony. A second, unexpected blow to one of his knees made him collapse, and McKay released him, letting him crumple to the floor.

No longer able to move his left leg below the knee, and cradling his wrist to his chest, Zelenka lay there for a moment, moaning softly to himself. McKay merely stepped over him, bending over the terminal Zelenka himself had been using.

Smiling to himself— humming, even— McKay typed away at the interface, executing command after command, ignoring the man suffering at his feet. If the inhabitants of Atlantis wished to play with him, he would do so. _And_, he thought with an expression of dark pleasure, _it will be by my rules_. Picking up a nearby tablet, he made a few final commands, before pausing to type in a long, overly complicated password. Looking self-satisfied, he turned, eyebrows going up as he saw the Czech man staring up at him, like he was noticing Zelenka for the first time.

Kneeling, his tilted his head at the scientist, regarding his fear and obvious bafflement with a fake concern, before his grin returned. "You should have someone take a look at that, Radek," he said, patting Zelenka's shoulder and laughing as the other man flinched away from him. As he rose again, he took the tablet from the table, and walked towards the exit— deliberately stepping on Zelenka's discarded radio in the process.

* * *

Sheppard, Lorne, and the rest of the security detail slid into the transport, a few seconds later to emerge in a dark corridor. Lorne and his men flicked on flashlights, making Sheppard kick himself mentally for not grabbing his own. Two of them brought up Wraith stunners, and Sheppard brought up his sidearm, taking point.

As they crept down the corridor, a voice from ahead called out, "Hello?"

"Hold it!" Sheppard said, bringing his hand up to stop the marines and dropping his weapon. "Elizabeth?"

A flashlight beam preceded the form that came towards them, but as it was lowered towards the floor, the colonel could see Dr. Weir squinting in their own lights. "Glad to see _someone_ finally made it," she commented, turning to lead them back towards the chair room.

Reholstering his weapon and running a few steps to catch up, he asked, "Someone? I thought Zelenka was coming."

"I thought so too," she said, glancing up at him. "But he hasn't shown." Gesturing towards a closed door ahead of her, she gave a resigned sigh. "I had _hoped_ he could get this door open, but…"

Lorne stepped up as she trailed off, waving one of his men forward. The tightly clustered group watched as he fiddled with a panel next to the door, and then began rearranging crystals— a couple of them holding up their flashlights for him, wanting to at least do something to help. With a nod to himself, he turned to Lorne. "That should do it sir."

The Major turned to Sheppard; "Colonel?"

Sheppard nodded slowly, moving up next to the door, and trying to stick his fingers into the edge. Lorne and one of the marines moved up to help pull the doors apart, Weir and the others stepping back to give them room. After a few moments of exertion, and some grunting from the effort, the doors gave— they only went about two feet before the three of them gave up, figuring it was enough.

Hesitating, Sheppard drew his M9 again; he could see the others drawing their own weapons, and Weir hanging towards the back. Nodding to her, he gestured the two marines with stunners forward first— he was willing to defend himself, but if shots were to be exchanged, he'd prefer not to permanently injure anyone.

In a second, both marines had gone through; a moment later, Lorne and the last marine had followed. Sheppard held back for a moment next to Weir, exchanging a glance with her before sliding between the two doors himself.

There wasn't much to see in the room— the only light came from the assorted flashlights and the dim reflections off the metallic surfaces. A light shone from behind him as Weir came through, and paused as she examined the eerie setting.

The silence was broken as one of the men shouted, "We've got someone over here!"

Sheppard and Weir turned as one to see multiple beams of light converging on a human form on the floor. The colonel approached, his brow furrowed in confusion; "_Beckett?_" he asked of no one in particular.

Major Lorne glanced up at him from where he was kneeling on the floor. "He's unconscious, sir."

Again, Weir and Sheppard exchanged a long glance, and her hand went up to her radio— it was hard to see it shaking in the low light. "This is Weir. I need a medical team in the chair room."


	7. Suspense

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Wednesday, 1 August 2007**

* * *

**Chapter 6: Suspense**

* * *

_Kneeling, his tilted his head at the scientist, regarding his fear and obvious bafflement with a fake concern, before his grin returned. "You should have someone take a look at that, Radek," he said, patting Zelenka's shoulder and laughing as the other man flinched away from him. As he rose again, he took the tablet from the table, and walked towards the exit— deliberately stepping on Zelenka's discarded radio in the process._

* * *

_Again, Weir and Sheppard exchanged a long glance, and her hand went up to her radio— it was hard to see it shaking in the low light. "This is Weir. I need a medical team in the chair room."_

* * *

Zelenka held as still as he could, hoping McKay would just leave, get out, before he couldn't contain himself any longer. If he could just hold still, keep quiet, then McKay would be gone. He was terrified that any movement, even the smallest of sounds would bring the mad man back.

Carefully, slowly, he began to turn his head towards the door. McKay was standing there— staring directly at him.

Panic welling again, Zelenka let out a short, quiet gasp, involuntarily flinching just a bit further back.

But McKay did not move he continued to watch the Czech's reaction, a small, dark smile on his face. Then, something that he barely registered as extraordinary, so distracted by pain and fear was he— for an instant, a light seemed to flash in the other scientist's eyes. And then, he was gone.

Somewhat in shock, the scientist forgot to move until he realized he was hyperventilating. Forcing himself to take slower, more even breaths, he laid his head back on the cool floor.

_What is going on?_ he thought to himself. Something was wrong with McKay. Horribly wrong. The man could be rude and uncouth and heartless, but cruelty was a rarity. Something like this was unthinkable… he couldn't wrap his mind around it…

The Czech let out a short, high pitched laugh. _Give me a break, Radek,_ he could imagine McKay saying. _Given, your mind is nothing like mine, but even you should be able to handle this._ That was McKay. _That is the Rodney I know_, he thought, continuing to shake with delirious laughter.

But he had seemed so lucid. So perfectly in control. Both possibilities couldn't be right, but…

Laughter died into sounds of hurt, faint and slow. Gingerly, he tried to prop himself up on his one good arm, before pulling his legs up under him. A spasm of pain shot through one knee which refused to work, and he fell back to the ground, face first and injured arm pinned beneath him. A muffled scream escaped from his throat— it felt as though someone was tearing his hand from his arm— and he did not attempt to move again.

Under the finger tips of his good hand, he could feel something plastic and sharp. Closing around it, he drew it slowly towards himself, hand shaking.

The radio… the earpiece was broken and the plastic cracked in many places but, impossibly… static was still coming through intermittently. Exhaling in disbelief, he pulled it up next to his mouth, squeezing its damaged button gingerly.

"Medical team… to the science lab," he said, before closing his mouth and eyes, trying not to moan.

There was nothing he could do now but wait, and pray.

* * *

"You don't think—"

Sheppard cut Lorne off with a glare. Cowed by his superior officer's behavior, Lorne glanced back down at Beckett, silently wondering. For his part, the colonel quickly regretted it, but all the same…

"It wasn't him," Sheppard insisted, surprised to realize that it was, even if only in small part, to convince himself as well as the others assembled. "You'd have to tie Beckett into that chair just to get him to sit in it." Even though the situation appeared grim enough what with the man knocked out cold, Sheppard couldn't help but feel there was more to it.

Now kneeling beside Beckett, Weir offered a tiny smile that didn't quite reach her eyes for the colonel's joke. "What happened to you, Carson?" she whispered to the unresponsive man.

The colonel could offer no reply. Lorne stepped in. "We'll find out, ma'am," he assured her with a certainty he didn't have.

"I know you will, Major," she replied, once more establishing the fearless-leader façade. Looking to some of the marines; "Go scout around— make sure there's no one else nearby."

A few minutes passed uneasily— Beckett didn't stir. The patrolling marines found nothing else out of the ordinary, besides a second forced door. The stillness and anticlimactic lack of action was starting to wear on Sheppard's nerves, and he shifted from side to side. "What the hell is taking that med-team so long?" he muttered, fingering his radio again. "Control Room, this is Sheppard… Control Room?"

Weir glanced up, confused as Colonel Sheppard said nothing after a few moments. "What is it?" she asked quietly.

Looking disconcerted; "I'm not getting anything."

She stood from where she was, trying it herself. "This is Weir. Can anyone hear me?" She too got no reply, and tilted her head. "Is the radio dead?" He could tell she was concealing some anxiety, and could sympathize.

"I dunno," he said under his breath. "Hold on—" he said, pulling his earpiece out and fiddling with the frequency for a moment, before holding it up to his mouth. "Can you hear this?" he asked softly.

Frowning, Weir hesitated, before placing a finger over each ear, pressing the radio's earpiece into the one. "Try again," she instructed him.

He did so, and saw her frown deepen. "I heard it," she said at length— "At least, I think I did. But only barely. It was like something was interfering with it," she added, concern growing on her face.

"Colonel! Dr. Weir;" one of the marines ran up, looking slightly out of breath.

Sheppard bristled slightly. "What is it?"

The man looked somewhat shaken. "Power just went out in the hallways around here."

"You're sure it wasn't already out?" Weir asked. "Zelenka could have disabled this entire section."

"No ma'am," he replied, even more ill at ease. "All the doors past those leading directly here were working just fine— the lights were on and everything. And then, all of a sudden, no power."

"Lorne and the others?" Sheppard broke in, sure he already knew the answer.

The marine seemed to deflate. "Kaczynski's on this side, but the major and Riley are stuck."

Jutting out his jaw, Sheppard paused to think. Finally; "Alright, you and Kaczynski work on getting them out. Elizabeth," he added, turning to her and gesturing with his head. "You're with me."

She seemed ready to pull rank on him for a moment. "And what about Carson?" she reminded the colonel.

With a troubled looked back at the man, he said, "He's not going anywhere."

The two of them then set out back via the door they had initially come through, Sheppard leading the way. It wasn't long before Weir's flashlight illuminated the closed door of the transporter, which refused to open, even when he thought at it. Valiantly, he attempted to force it open; it refused to give, and Weir tucked her flashlight under her arm, stepping up to help. Both straining with the effort, the panel eventually started to slide to one side, enough for Weir to slip in and brace herself against the doorjamb and use both her legs and arms to help push it the rest of the way.

With one last heave, the way to the transporter room was clear, and Weir moved in to make room for Sheppard. He went straight for the panel at the back, looking at it, then placing his hand upon it. Then punching it.

Weir frowned at him as he cursed under his breath, though at least part of it was for the unresponsive technology. "Apparently, neither are we," she remarked.

* * *

"Whoa, whoa whoa _whoa!_"

The gate tech on duty glanced over at his nearby comrade, who had recoiled away from his station. The strange events of the night were only getting stranger, and he found himself tensing up, anxiously waiting for the other man to elaborate.

Finally, someone couldn't take the suspense. "What is it?" they demanded.

The first man shook his head in disbelief. "Power all over the city." He returned to his keyboard. "It's out in some places, but surging in others." After a few more strokes, he held his hands up helplessly. "It makes no sense!"

They all went after their own stations, trying to make something of what was going on. For his part, the gate tech found nothing malfunctioning with the Stargate— a small relief in a long line of worries.

"Communications aren't working," someone called.

He called back, "Are they down?"

The woman who had spoken bit her lip, not replying for a moment. "I can't tell. But something's definitely wrong—"

For a moment, the Control Room seemed to glow like it was day again, bathed in too-bright blue and white light emanating from the Ancient consoles. Before any of them could register the increase in light for what it was, every piece of their own technology started sparking, and lights shattered. Shouting and crying out, they all flinched away from their stations— many dove for or fell to the floor, seeking cover from the flying glass.

A second later, the power completely died, to Earth and Ancient technology alike.

Picking himself up, the gate tech looked around; he couldn't see much, despite the starlight from the many windows in the Gate Room below. "Is every one okay?"

There was a general chorus of assent, and he looked around.

Everything that they had witnessed so far tonight had been completely inexplicable— shots out of the dark. And somehow, that made it that much more terrifying.

* * *

With every new challenge, every line of code, every command it wanted, the thing dove back into his mind. He could feel himself fraying at the edges, in mental agony and threatening to come undone. Rodney felt that it was only the creature itself holding him together, both for the information he possessed and the enjoyment it derived from torturing him like this.

_You are pathetic. Weak,_ it told him, an easy, light assurance that left him feeling ever more revulsion for it… and him. _You are like the last_.

The image of Beckett in his mind— being tossed away, like a rag doll, then kicking him… the sense of satisfaction he had derived from seeing the man remain still, overcoming the natural terror he had felt— _would_ have felt, _should_ have felt. There was no part of him the _thing_ couldn't violate and control, apparently, to include his emotions.

This time, though, it was a memory that it chose to show him. Not one of his own, violently distorted and nightmarishly real, but one it conjured up from a previous host. With a shock, he seemed to see himself walking down a hallway, and heard a high, agonized voice that he recognized as Beckett's. The metaphysical stabbing sensation that he had come to associate with the creature tore through him, and even in memory, it hurt. It _hurt_. _No!_ he could hear the voice scream. _No, please! Anything, anything, just stop! Stop, take him instead, _it begged. _He can do it. He can make it work!_

Rodney tried to pull himself out of it, to tell himself that it was a lie, and illusion created by the snake in his head, but couldn't. All he could do was listen to another— someone he had called his friend— try to bargain his life for theirs.

He wanted to not believe it… _he wanted to…_ but he couldn't…

And the puppet master smirked to himself, using stolen lips. Even as McKay rested on a balcony, tapping away at a tablet and watching havoc unfold across the city, that facet of Rodney McKay was but a shadow in a back corner of his mind. It did only as he made it do. And he reminded it of that once again, calling up another memory…


	8. Sabotage

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Thursday, 2 August 2007**

A/N: Just a quick note— I've been having a distinct trouble writing lately… I think I just burnt myself out. I _don't_ think there'll be a problem in getting up a chapter tomorrow, but after that, I'm going to take the weekend off… Recuperate, let my family know I still exist…

And I think I just have to dedicate a chapter to Deana, who is probably the singularly most enthusiastic person I have ever met. ;) As well, thanks to Jersey13 for her advice. :)

* * *

**Chapter 7: Sabotage**

* * *

_Weir seemed ready to pull rank on him for a moment. "And what about Carson?" she reminded the colonel._

_With a troubled looked back at the man, Sheppard said, "He's not going anywhere."_

* * *

_McKay rested on a balcony, tapping away at a tablet and watching havoc unfold across the city._

* * *

Returning to the main room, Weir and Sheppard found Beckett exactly as they had left him. Neither said a thing— Weir stooped to check their unconscious friend again, and after a moment, the soldier moved towards one of the hallways, deciding to try and help open the blocked doors.

As it turned out, he didn't need to— Lorne and the rest of his security team walked into the central room about the time he was halfway to the door.

"Transporter's not working," he said shortly, not bothering with pleasantries this time.

The look on Lorne's face summed up what Sheppard felt— they kept getting more and more screwed over, and he was tired of it.

"So, do we wait it out?"

Sheppard shook his head, and said, "Negative." Afterwards, though, he glanced to Weir. She showed no signs of objection.

"Beckett can't stay like this; he may have a concussion," she continued, trying not to frown. _How did everything escalate out of control like this?_ Had this whole thing been a setup, a trap, to get top personnel and security stuck out of the way? It certainly looked like it. That pointed to Zelenka, though— another person she was not quite ready to suspect.

The colonel quirked one eyebrow up. "You're sure?"

Weir gave him an incredulous look. "_No_. I'm a diplomat, not a doctor." Grimacing; "But do you really want to take that chance?"

Reluctantly, Sheppard had to admit he didn't. "Alright," he muttered, before turning to the other military men. "You heard the lady. Let's find a way out of here," he said, trying to force optimism into his voice.

* * *

The night was unusually cool. Making a noise of displeasure, Ronon Dex flipped over in bed, probably about the fifth time in the last minute. No matter how he turned, however, he couldn't seem to get comfortable— and that damned _cold!_

Thoroughly frustrated, he kicked the covers off, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "The hell…" he muttered. Now fully awake, he realized that his room was _freezing_— he could even see frost on the windows.

Confused, he rose from where he sat, making his way to them. Lantea was a warm planet— and despite being in the middle of the ocean, Atlantis did not deviate from that. As much as he would have liked to gripe about the idiot scientists not telling anyone about some cold front, he couldn't see that happening— not for something like this.

Something didn't seem quite right though. Tentatively reaching out, Ronon ran his fingers over the glass; they came away wet, leaving a clear streak in their wake.

The frost was on the inside of the window.

Even as he stood there, the clear spot frosted up again; his extremities were starting to go numb.

"All right, enough," he said to no one in particular. Irritated, he got fully dressed, fumbling with the clothes on a number of occasions as his fingers grew stiff. It was growing colder by the minute. By the time he stumbled out the door and into the hallway beyond, the large man was already shivering.

Cursing whoever had decided to play with the temperatures in the city, he started to head for the nearest stairwell, looking forward to berating some of the scientists from Earth. Taking the steps two at a time, he came up into a hallway where the lights were feeble and flickering intermittently.

Ronon paused to look at them, before tossing his head back in an expression of exasperation. It was as if the whole City had just up and decided to stop working. A low noise came from his throat, sounding suspiciously like a growl. He only made it a few steps in his chosen direction before he came to a door.

He waited for a moment, before kicking it. It refused to open. Yelling out in frustration, he kicked it again, before turning around.

This area was somewhat familiar to him. Rethinking his approach, he started in the opposite direction— finding yet another malfunctioning door, but this one was partially open. It was enough for him to get his fingers around the edges and widen the opening— it was barely wide enough, though, and he had to exhale most of the breath in his lungs just to squeeze through.

The lights here were also sputtering, dim at best, and dead at worst. But something else about this section was putting Ronon on edge… Some part of him knew that there was something wrong here.

* * *

Atlantis was a benign thing— those who lived inside its walls had not always been so sure of the fact, but had since learned. True, the Ancients who had built this city had left numerous dangers behind in the form of strange energy-entities and deadly viruses and equipment they didn't understand; yet, the City had never been intended to harm any of its inhabitants.

But it was amazing what such intimate knowledge of these delicate systems could produce. McKay clicked away at the tablet on his lap. Atlantis had redundant backups and fail safes to prevent power surges— of course, should someone disable these fail safes, and remotely disconnect some parts of the city's power grid… He watched as power levels faltered in many sections— like the infirmary, or the chair room— leaving the resulting power to build up in others. He saw sudden increases and decreases in power in both the science lab and Control Room— both rife with Earth technology, susceptible to such overloads.

Dozens of minor systems, seemingly innocuous, but capable of so much more. Things he could see in the mind of the other— things contemplated, understood, and _now_, executed. The mess hall was scorching hot and living quarters were freezing over. Water pumps now ran in reverse; piers that they had once worked to empty of water began to flood again.

And now, as he tore out another thread from the frayed mind of the original, air filters. With a self-satisfied smile, he tapped out the command. He really put himself to shame with this one— it took an incredible mind like his own to see the devices beyond their original design, to push their capabilities as he did.

_And they are not the only ones,_ he whispered to the mind hiding at the back of his own. _You should take pride in this— it is you who makes it possible_, he told it. It said nothing in return— he should have expected as much. It had ceased to be responsive, choosing to cower and watch him resentfully. Sometimes it did not even do that. In fact, he was starting to grow bored with it.

McKay began to whistle, leaning back against the wall, content. There were none now who had the ability to contend with him. He was master of this city, with or without the chair.

* * *

It had been, perhaps, luck— lucky that she had been sleeping poorly, lucky that she had felt the need to rise for a drink of water.

As Teyla Emmagan began to sip slowly from a glass, she began to become weary again. Despite the feeling, the Athosian did not feel tired… She barely registered that she was beginning to lose consciousness again until her eyes started to slip shut.

Catching herself, Teyla opened her eyes again, stumbling to the side— she had been swaying, and not even realizing it. Concerned, she paused, glancing around the room, as if it would reveal some answers.

A sense of vertigo overcame her, and for the second time, she was reeling. This time, she barely caught herself on the wall; the muscles in her twitched, and the glass slipped from her hand. Teyla started as it shattered on the floor.

Now, she knew something was _definitely_ wrong; even with the adrenaline now coursing through her blood, her heart pounding away in her chest, she felt as though at any moment she was going to pass out. Teyla's breathing became heavy and rapid, and yet, she felt short of breath. _The air,_ she realized. _Something is wrong with the air._

Now gasping, she staggered for the door. It opened sluggishly, as if it too had its strength stolen.

Out in the corridor, there was little improvement. The woman closed her eyes for a moment, pausing to try to catch her breath. It came to her no easier, and she realized that she would soon be unconscious if she did not find fresher air.

But it was not only the thin atmosphere that Teyla was fighting against. As she made her way down the corridor, panic began to take hold of her. She could no longer prevent herself from gasping, which quickly gave way into hyperventilating. Letting out a cry, she slipped, knocking into the wall, her feet fouling up beneath her.

She was beyond dizzy. The world seemed to spin around her; dimly, she was aware of a jarring pain in her knees as she fell forwards, managing to catch herself clumsily one her hands.

Though she panted and struggled for breath, terror rising… nothing came.

* * *

Dr. Weir gently brushed her hair out of her way, bending over Beckett's prone form to listen to his breathing. In doing so, she gave a small shiver, writing it off as the cold— her jacket was now placed carefully under the man's head.

From where she was, she could hear his breathing… slow and regular. It was a minor relief in a long list of new, alarming prospects.

Her relief was replaced by anxiety, though, as the doctor's breathing suddenly became deeper and faster. To Weir's surprise— Beckett began to cough weakly, head turning and limbs shifting slightly.

"Carson?" she asked in amazement. She adjusted herself to help the man sit up as he roused himself. "Can you hear me?" she asked, one arm wrapped around his shoulder supportively. He nodded, though he also appeared ready to throw up. "Take it easy," Weir instructed him, her voice soft. Though he was tense— his muscles jerked when he moved— and his eyes were wide with… fear? …he nodded again.

A debate from one of the adjacent hallways marked the return of at least some of the military personnel, turning both of their heads. "I know it's not exactly normal, sir, but it'll take way too long to use another route." Lorne looked as though he was trying convince Colonel Sheppard of something.

The colonel, on the other hand, gave his second-in-command a dry response. "And I'm all for trying it— _if_ you can find a way to make it work." He looked alarmed as Lorne suddenly stopped short, eyes wide. Following the major's stare, he had a similar reaction upon seeing Weir and— "Carson!"

Weir couldn't help but smile at his outburst— both men came over, and Beckett recoiled as Sheppard crouched down.

"Whoa!" he said, holding up both hands. "You're all right."

Lorne, too, lowered himself to be closer to eye level with the other three. "You've got a nasty bump and some scratches on the back of your head, and maybe some busted ribs, but— besides that, you're golden," he assured the man. Beckett snorted weakly at Lorne.

"Well that's reassuring." The others cracked smiles, which quickly faded as he clenched his eyes shut, making a sound of pain.

"Beckett?"

"_No!_" The cry startled them, and the others exchanged worried glances.

Weir placed a steadying hand on his arm, but he flinched away. "Carson, calm down," she said, firm but with a hint of worry.

He shook his head, before cringing against some unseen torment. "No, _no_, you don't understand! Rodney," he said urgently, "he's—" Beckett cut himself short with another agonized sound that died into a whimper, and he started to slump forward. Lorne rushed to help Weir support him.

"Beckett, listen to me," Sheppard insisted. "Just relax for now, okay? You'll have plenty of time to tell us later," he assured the doctor. "Right now you're suffering from a… concussion," he said, with a glance towards Weir. 'Rodney,' he mouthed.

She bit her lip. "If he's in trouble, there's nothing we can do right now," she murmured quietly, leaning away from Beckett who showed no signs of hearing. "Speaking of," she continued, raising her voice slightly; "Did I hear you two talking about a way out?"

Sheppard and Lorne exchanged an uneasy glance, and with a visible reluctance, the former nodded. He stood up, ducking back down to help Lorne pull Beckett to his feet. Weir rose herself, looking curious. The colonel gestured with his head for Weir to precede them.

It didn't take long to come onto the other three marines— or to figure out Sheppard's recalcitrance. All three flashlight beams were pointed upwards, illuminating a square panel in the center of the hallway's ceiling. Weir's mouth quirked to the side in a frown. "Ah." Then she let out a long sigh. "Of course."


	9. Deluge

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Friday, 3 August 2007**

A/N: Thanks, guys, for the words of encouragement. :D Remember, next chapter that goes up is Monday. Here, you've got an double long chapter to hold you over that I probably should have divided into two (if I weren't so lazy). ;)

* * *

**Chapter 8: Deluge**

* * *

_Teyla was beyond dizzy. The world seemed to spin around her; dimly, she was aware of a jarring pain in her knees as she fell forwards, managing to catch herself clumsily one her hands. Though she panted and struggled for breath, terror rising… nothing came._

* * *

_It didn't take long to come onto the other three marines— or to figure out Sheppard's recalcitrance. All three flashlight beams were pointed upwards, illuminating a square panel in the center of the hallway's ceiling. Weir's mouth quirked to the side in a frown. "Ah." Then she let out a long sigh. "Of course."_

* * *

Sounds were pounding in Teyla's ears. Her pulse. The blood. It was deafening, every surge like a hammer to her head. Even more sound assaulted her, and she flinched away from it as it grew louder.

"_Teyla!_"

Someone seized both of her arms, shaking her lightly.

Ronon watched the Athosian's eyes flutter, before locking onto him momentarily. She seemed confused… disoriented. "Come on, up," he ordered, his voice not quite as gruff as usual. Though her eyes were starting to glass over, she nodded, and he could see her struggling to pull herself together.

He understood what was going on— he had begun to feel light-headed himself shortly after entering this section. Whatever was wrong with the air in here… well, he was trying to hold his breath. Getting Teyla to do the same, what with her already rapid inhalations, would be a different story.

"Try not to breath so much," he muttered to her. Whether or not she heard, he didn't know. Regardless, Ronon pulled her upwards by one arm, starting to lead the woman down the hall.

He stumbled once, very nearly bringing Teyla down with him. He brushed it off as low lighting.

After a few more seconds, he felt Teyla jerk out of his grip, and spun, worried that she had fallen. Instead, she was stopped, leaning against the wall with one hand, the other on her forehead. "Come _on_," he insisted.

She shook her head at him, clenching her eyes shut. "No, there are… _mm_, there are others in this section!" she managed to grate out.

Ronon let out a small sound of frustration. "And we won't do them a lot of good by passing out." Once again he took hold of her arm, and this time, Teyla offered no resistance. He wasn't so sure that it was his argument, as much as oxygen deprivation. Either way, he didn't care.

Over the next minute, they both stumbled more than Ronon cared to admit, and he found that he was taking breaths more and more often. Finally, he saw the half-open door ahead, and pulled Teyla around, giving her a slight shove to get through it first. Panting— getting more air than he had, but still not enough— Ronon dropped to one knee, leaning against the door panel.

Then someone was crouching next to him, pressing something to his face and urging him to inhale. The Satedan had little choice, but after a few breaths, he found they came easier and under his own control. Glancing up, he saw the concerned face of one of the doctors.

"Not to rush you, but we need to get away from this section," she said, and he pushed away the oxygen mask she was holding, wearily pushing himself to his feet. Nodding, the doctor slipped through the space between the door and the wall, stepping out of the way so Ronon could do the same. On the other side, he could see a second medical officer kneeling next to Teyla, who was holding an oxygen mask of her own. Upon seeing Ronon, however, she pushed it gently back into the young man's hands, rising to greet him.

"You all right?"

She nodded, though looking a little shaken. "I am fine." In fact, Ronon felt about how she looked, but decided he was good enough now to continue; though, he _was_ getting what was turning out to be a fine _headache_.

The doctor stepped in to provide a little explanation. "Carbon dioxide poisoning; the worst effects should wear off fairly quickly. We don't know why," she said, "but the levels in that section are getting dangerously high."

Teyla frowned at that report. "Is Atlantis not capable of handling such impurities in the air?"

The other woman's brow puckered. "Yes… It has filters to prevent this sort of thing." She stooped to help her med tech gather up the equipment on the floor. When she stood back up, the worry lines on her face had deepened. "In fact, the only thing I can imagine as being capable of pushing CO2 levels so high _are_ those filters, but they'd have to be malfunctioning pretty badly." The prospect seemed to disturb her greatly.

Ronon stood with his arms crossed in front of him. "But this door is open," he said, jerking his thumb towards it. "Shouldn't that help?"

She shook her head. "Not enough. We really do need to move away from here," she insisted, though neither of her patients made to leave.

"What about the people still in their quarters?" Teyla asked.

Again the doctor shook her head, though reluctantly. "There's no way to effectively or quickly get them all out. Right now, though, they should all be asleep and breathing slowly," she added, trying to make them see her side; "so they'll be alright for a while." This time when she started to leave, Teyla and Ronon followed, though reluctantly and after a long shared look. The doctor continued to explain as the four of them made their way through the halls of Atlantis. "I'm trying to get some of the medical staff up here to evacuate them, but right now there are crises breaking out all over the city," she added, seeming slightly disgruntled. The med tech frowned in agreement.

Wondering what else could be going wrong tonight, Teyla asked outright. "What do you mean?"

"Near my quarters it was freezing," Ronon piped up. "Literally," he added, when the Athosian woman raised an eyebrow in his direction.

"And that's not the worst of it," the tech broke in. "As you can imagine," he added with a jerk of his head back the way they had come. "Power's gone haywire."

The doctor nodded. "Communications are down, too, so coordinating _anything's_ been a nightmare. No one can even find half the senior personnel," she added, causing Ronon and Teyla to exchange yet another worried glance. "Right now, the best way to beat this is to figure out what's causing all the problems and fix it."

Neither could offer argument to that, though Ronon did have one more question.

"Where are we headed?"

The doctor glanced back at him over her shoulder. "The Control Room— it's the only place with any semblance of usefulness right now, and that's just the Ancient technology," she remarked with a droll look. "Plus, that's where we're trying to get emergency response efforts organized."

After a few more minutes, the small group came into the Gateroom, which was relatively bustling with activity, for 2:30 in the morning. Still, despite being the 'best' place left, they could see that the Control area above had suffered as well, and the comings and goings seemed to hold an air of franticness.

The doctor started to go; before their erstwhile guide slipped off, Teyla caught the woman with a touch to her arm. "I am sorry, but I am not familiar with your name," she started.

The other woman smiled in response, though in the mess of things, Teyla could see it was strained. "Keller," she replied, before returning to the fray.

* * *

"Alright," Weir muttered. To the men's surprise, she passed off her flashlight, before apparently sizing up the panel above.

"What are you—"

She cut Sheppard off with a dry grin. "I _am_ the lightest one here, aren't I?"

Sheppard exchanged an uneasy glance with Lorne, who was struggling to hide a smile. The colonel's glance became a glare; he could see he wasn't going to get any _help_ from Lorne. "I suppose so," he said at length.

Weir's eyebrows went up. "What?"

"Nothing," he replied hastily. "C'mon," he muttered to his 2IC, who began to snicker as they lowered Beckett to lean back against one of the walls. It was easy to forget sometimes that Elizabeth Weir was not as fragile as she appeared. The two of them took up a position on either side of the woman, each lacing their fingers together and stooping over. She placed a hand on each of their shoulders. "Alright, easy, easy," Sheppard said as they pushed Weir upwards. "Keep her steady," he remarked to the other men. Admittedly, he had to hide a smile as well as the young marines balked, before reluctantly taking a hold of their leader's legs to keep her from falling.

"Not high enough," Weir called down.

Lorne was able to simply lift Weir's foot to his shoulder— being distinctly taller than the major, Sheppard was forced to hold her other foot up at chest height. The sound of pounding, and then the grating of metal against metal, came down; Sheppard was starting to feel thankful for Weir's smaller form.

Finally, they could hear the panel scraping against the metal as Weir slid it out of the way. "All right," she said. "See if you can get me any higher."

"Right," Sheppard said under his breath. They managed to push her up through the now considerable hole in the ceiling; soon she was able to get enough leverage to haul herself up the rest of they way. The colonel dropped his arms to the side, craning his neck upwards. "You good?"

"Yep," was the reply.

"…How is it up there?" he asked, conversationally.

Finally, Weir's face reappeared in the hole as she managed to get herself turned around. "Roomy," she said, a bit ironically. "Hold on, I…"

The men exchanged a few glances. It was Lorne who spoke up after a few seconds. "Dr. Weir?"

Her voice echoed back down, sounding further away now. "I think I found an exit—" Several thumps, followed by a clattering sound, filtered back to them. She appeared to look down at them again. "All right, who's next?"

Sheppard beckoned for one of the marines— one closer to his own height— to take the major's place. "Lorne, you're up."

* * *

Teyla drifted across the Control Room, feeling slightly… _useless_. Pausing, she stared at the citywide life signs detector, flickering intermittently. She could see the small white dots, and wondered how long it would be before they started to vanish, one by one.

Those people who had made it here were in a mad scramble to find a solution, but as she listened, she couldn't help but think it was going nowhere. In the background, she could hear Dr. Keller trying to get some stragglers together to evacuate those members of the expedition in immediate danger. Teyla was about to head in that direction and offer her assistance, when she overheard two scientists arguing nearby.

"A virus? What kind of idiot are you?"

"Do you honestly think this is all a coincidence? A dozen minor systems start malfunctioning at the same time, all with deadly—"

"This system is secure, and what kind of autonomic virus could take out the entire City?!" The two men seemed about to come to blows when Teyla stepped between them.

"Would your efforts not be spent more wisely trying to _solve_ these problems," she said, her voice holding a dangerous edge, "instead of creating more?"

One of the scientists screwed up his face. "I'm telling you, this is deliberate." He turned to look at Teyla, trying to convince her. "If we don't start treating the situation like sabotage, we're never going to overcome it."

"You're being paranoid and looking for a quick, dirty solution," the other man shot back.

Teyla had turned her full attention to the first scientist, however, the to the chagrin of the second. "Sabotage?" she repeated.

Seeming slightly taken aback now that someone was actually listening to him, the scientist nodded, licking his lips. "Yes. _Maybe_ it's not a virus," he said without conviction, tossing a glare at the second man, before continuing; "But there's no doubt in my mind that this has some root in outside interference. Hey, where are you going?" he asked, as Teyla paced away.

She offered no answer, and the scientists exchanged confused looks, before starting to follow after Teyla, who was moving with a purpose.

Something drew her back to the life signs detector, something that didn't sit well with the Athosian. Finally, she found it again, in the intermittent images that appeared on the glowing screen. "There," she said, placing her finger on a solitary dot sitting on the edge of the city, outdoors. Turning back to the scientists, she asked, "Are there any malfunctions in this area?"

She watched the two men go from console to console, their eyes becoming progressively wider. Eventually one of them just halted, shaking his head dumbly. The other came up behind him, looking grim.

Teyla's eyes narrowed, and she turned back towards the general room, calling out; "Ronon!"

* * *

"Up you go," Sheppard muttered, lifting Beckett skywards. It was lucky they had decided to send the doctor up third— there were still enough people below to steady him as he lurched. Weir's and Lorne's hands quickly grasped at his hands, pulling him up into the small space— the noises of discomfort making Sheppard wonder just how 'roomy' it was up there.

By the time the next marine went up, Sheppard could feel his arms were ready to give out. "All right, which one of you's going up?" he said with an odd air of finality.

Kaczynski gave Sheppard a curious look, but the third marine, Carrozales, shifted uneasily. "Sir…"

"Yes?"

Sheppard shot the man a blank look; Carrozales swallowed. "Someone's going to have to stay on this level," he started.

"Two someones, actually," Sheppard corrected with a smile. Both marines seemed a little taken aback, but he kept the cheerful expression. "Too far up with nothing but the ceiling to brace against for balance… No way one person could do it alone. So which one of you's going up?" he repeated.

"Carrozales," Kaczynski said immediately, provoking a protest from his teammate. "Look, you're the lighter one— and the colonel doesn't look like he's got much upper body strength left," he added with a grin.

"Hey," Sheppard said, incensed. As he readied himself to boost Carrozales, he shot Kaczynski a dirty look, which only made the marine's smile wider. "Watch it," he warned, though only somewhat serious.

Once the smaller marine was through, the colonel saw Lorne's face staring at him in confusion. "Colonel?"

Sheppard waved at Lorne. "Go on, major. We'll find another way up."

He nodded in reply, before tossing his flashlight down to Sheppard. "Sir," he said by way of acknowledgement, and farewell.

Sheppard and Kaczynski watched the open access way for a moment, before glancing back down at each other. "Guess it's just you and me now, sir," the marine said, stooping to pick up his flashlight and stunner.

"Let's head back to that transporter real fast," Sheppard said, flicking Lorne's torch on. "We might get lucky," he said, hopefully. The wry grin from his subordinate summed up about how he felt, though. _Still, it's a start_.

* * *

By now Beckett was walking on his own, but he didn't seem to be getting better, Weir noted, growing more and more troubled by the man's state. Though certainly not good, the bruise on the back of his head hadn't seemed _that_ bad.

The walk through the halls wasn't going so quickly, and Weir was about ready to have the marines _drag_ Beckett if they had to— she wanted him in the infirmary— when the doctor stumbled, not quite catching himself on the wall.

His eyes started to roll into the back of his head, setting off Weir and the marines. "Let's get him down," Lorne ordered, and they eased him back onto the floor— Weir quickly had her jacket off and under his head once more. The major sidled up behind Weir as she kneeled next to her friend. After a moment; "Ma'am?"

She looked up at him, pausing before replying. "Keep going," she said at last. "Bring help if you can."

Lorne nodded. "Riley," he said, jerking his head towards the two civilians, before turning to Carrozales; the two of them set off down the hall. Riley, meanwhile, crouched next to Weir, who gave him a short smile.

It was only a few minutes, surprisingly, before they heard hurried footsteps coming back towards them. Frowning, Riley rose to his feet, hand on his weapon. Weir tensed up, sliding between Beckett and the hallway. Both let out a sigh of relief as Carrozales came into sight. "Report," Weir said, trying to will her heart to stop pounding so fast.

"We found a med team," the man said, out of breath. "They're on their way," he added.

"Really?" Weir said, hardly believing it. As she stood, sure enough, Lorne rounded a corner with a medic trailing him. "At last," she said, not quite under her breath.

The medic had the good sense to look abashed, even as he stooped to see to Beckett. "We tried get down here sooner, but we were blocked off; then we got a faint transmission from Dr. Zelenka." He shrugged helplessly. "We decided to help the patient we could."

Weir's brow crinkled. "Zelenka? What's wrong with him?" She felt a tingling sensation along the back of her neck, recalling the scientist's absence earlier, her mind rushing with possibilities.

Lorne's expression became a shade darker. "Come on, I'll show you," he said. "He'd probably like to see you," the major added.

"Dr. Weir," the medic said, catching them before the left. "I am sorry," he said, his voice growing quiet.

"You made the right decision," Weir assured him, and Lorne had to nod. Returning her glance to Lorne, she gestured ahead of them. "Major?"

* * *

Sheppard held up a fist as he and Kaczynski reached the chair room once again, and accordingly, the marine stopped, silent.

After a second, the colonel asked, "You hear that?"

There was a faint sound, almost like a whir but little more than a murmur in the background. "Yes sir," Kaczynski replied, sounding pleased. "Think the powers starting to come back on?"

Sheppard glanced around the room they were in, which was still dim. "Well I guess we should find out," he said, raising his eyebrows in mock anticipation. "You check that way," he said, indicating one of the forced doors. "I'll take a look at the transporter."

He turned for the appropriate hallway, listening to the marine's footsteps for a few moments, before heading for the utility-closet-sized room. It was with a fair amount of disappointment that he came up to the dark end of the hall. Yet again, the panels within were unresponsive, though at least this time he refrained from hitting it.

"Sir!" The alarm in Kaczynski's voice caught Sheppard's attention, and he spun around. "You should see this," he added, sounding perturbed.

The colonel strode back towards the chair room, to see the marine staring at the floor, where water was starting to pool.

* * *

It hadn't taken long to track down spare weapons; despite the scientists' protests, neither Teyla nor Ronon felt like facing down a possible-saboteur without protection. What was taking longest was figuring out how to get there— according to the man currently behind the computer screen, there was no way without at least some hazards. "Well," he said, almost reluctantly as he leaned back form his station; "that's about the best it's going to get." Seeing Ronon's impatient look, he hurried to explain. "Up through here," he said, rising to indicate a rough route on the large flickering map of Atlantis. "I wouldn't linger anyplace too long," though he added.

It seemed suspicious to the Satedan. "No air?"

"No, no, there's air…" the scientist said, grimacing, bending to his console again. "But the temperature—" he hesitated, before swearing vehemently in a language neither Ronon nor Teyla recognized. Several people nearby stopped and stared in startlement.

"What?" the Athosian asked. "What about the temperature?"

He sighed in response. "Not just the temperature. The city is sinking," he announced, loud enough for those around them to hear. Concerned reactions came from every side of the room. "And that pier is flooding as we speak," he added in a quieter voice.

Ronon brandished a borrowed Wraith stunner. "Then we'd better get moving."

* * *

"_Radek!_" Weir couldn't help but gasp as she saw the man, arm and leg disfigured and laying on a stretcher. Lorne moved off a respectful distance, making himself busy by talking with another of the medics. "What happened?" she asked him, tightly gripping his good hand. One of the medical staff, a nurse, stepped up, talking quietly.

"His wrist is broken, and left knee dislocated. He's been delirious, though, so—"

"_Bah_," Zelenka cut in, trying to wave the hand Weir held. He went off into a stream of Czech, and Weir turned her gaze on the nurse.

"If you wouldn't mind," she said quietly, the implicit order in her voice. The nurse hesitated a second, before nodding, and making herself scarce. "What happened?" Weir repeated, much softer.

Zelenka stared at her a moment, haggardly, before letting out a short harsh laugh, rolling his head to the side. "Would not believe me if I told you," he mumbled. Weir could see that the nurse hadn't been lying about Zelenka's delirium, but he still seemed somewhat lucid.

She squeezed his hand to get his attention back. "I promise, Radek, I will. Tell me who did this."

Zelenka began to chuckle again bitterly, saying something in Czech that Weir didn't understand, but could guess wasn't exactly positive. "Rodney," he suddenly said, and she felt her heart sink. "Bastard attacked me," he continued, voice becoming high, and he let out another laugh, somehow finding the entire situation absurdly funny through his muddled state. "_Rodney_." The laughter subsided into a grimace, and he shifted his right arm uncomfortably.

"Did…" Weir swallowed hard. "Did anything seem strange about him?"

"Other than having strength of ten men?" Zelenka said, now wincing in pain again. "Glowing eyes."

"His _eyes_ glowed?" Weir asked, her own going wide. The medics were starting to move up on either end up the stretcher again. Weir, meanwhile, was staring at Zelenka in shock.

The scientist nodded feebly, before his stretcher was rolled away. The major returned from nearby, frowning as he saw the expression on the expedition leader's face. She was staring after the stretcher. Lorne's eyes did not follow it, however; instead, they were locked onto Weir, who had stiffened up. "Dr. Weir?" he inquired, cautiously.

The question seemed to snap her out of it, but the expression on her face when she looked over at him wasn't good. She turned on her heel and headed back down the hall where Riley, Carrozales, and now some of the medical team was; she ignored them all though, heading straight for Beckett. Lorne followed a step after her, not understanding what was going on. Weir caught him as he opened his mouth to ask, though, speaking in tense, clipped tones.

"The scrape on Beckett's neck…" She dropped to her knees without hesitation, gently taking the doctor's head in her hands as the medic scrambled to get out of the way. Lorne squatted next to her as she turned it, displaying a large, discolored bruise beneath the man's hair— however, it wasn't what she was inspecting now. A pink welt, at the center of which were thin white lines… "It's not a scrape," she said at last, her voice filled with a dread the major could feel welling in his own gut. "It's a scar."


	10. Sub Aqua

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Monday, 6 August 2007**

A/N: _Aghh!_

Okay, y'all are gonna lynch-mob me for this one, but updates this week— not guaranteed. _At all_. As in, I can't promise getting any more chapters up until next… Saturday? Sunday? Or even a week from now. I'll try, but like I said, I can't guarantee.

Now that you all are screaming something to the effect of _what??!_, let me explain _why_. See, this funny little thing happens this Wednesday, called a _birthday_. Now, to be fair, the author had no plans for this day, or for the week at all. Then her parents surprised her by flying her best friend who she has not seen for about two years out from Oregon to Texas for a week as an eighteenth birthday gift.

I _will_ try my hardest to write for you all, but as I've stated, no promises. Any chapters I do manage to get out will likely be shorter than usual, and at sporadic times. I _am_ sorry to leave y'all hanging like this, without a moment's notice— I really do care about this story, both writing it and delivering it to those who like to read it. Production returns to normal next week for _sure_, though!

Most of all— thank you for understanding. :)

* * *

**Chapter 9: Sub Aqua**

* * *

Lorne's M9 was out of its holster and snapped up faster than Dr. Weir would have thought possible. "_Major!_" she exclaimed, leaping to her feet.

"With all due respect, ma'am," he said, gun still steady and drawing a bead perfectly on Beckett's head, "he's not him anymore."

"You don't know that," she replied, her scathing tone uncharacteristic. "He had every opportunity to take out three senior staff members when we were all in the chair room, and he didn't."

The major didn't seemed fazed by that possibility— he only raised his eyebrows to acknowledge it, cool determination still evident in his expression, his posture… He had worked against these creatures… their armies… He knew exactly what they were capable of. "For all we know, it was an act. Blending in to gain our trust. Do you really want to take that risk?"

Weir stepped defiantly between the two of them. "Do you?" she asked, her voice dangerously quiet. Several tense moments passed between them, before she outright ordered, "Lower your weapon."

_You're making a mistake!_ Lorne screamed in his head. But… he had learned long ago that while Dr. Weir was not military, she _was_ the top of the food chain. Civilian or not, her orders were not ignored. Gritting his teeth, he lowered the M9 until it was pointed at the floor, but did not replace it in its holster.

Weir continued to stare at him for several seconds, seeming… disappointed? She was angry with him, that much was certain, and Major Lorne might have felt ashamed if he hadn't been so cross himself. At length, Weir turned away from him, gazing down at Dr. Beckett. "Zelenka informed me that he was attacked by Rodney," she said softly.

Lorne's eyebrows knitted together. "McKay?" That only spelt more bad news.

Weir looked coolly back at him. "It fits with the power loss. As well as the injuries," she said, pointedly. "Is that evidence enough for you, Major?" she asked; Lorne did not miss the slight emphasis on his rank.

His lips pulled to one side in an expression of displeasure. "No, ma'am," he answered in a clipped voice. "There could be more than one. Not to diminish Dr. Beckett's plight, but he should be kept under guard until it can be verified that there isn't a _snake_ in his head." He all but spat the last part… Lorne had thought he was done with this, when he had come to the Pegasus Galaxy. He had had enough of them for a lifetime… sure, Weir knew, but she hadn't been out there, watching what those _things_ had done, fighting them herself… And if she was ready to take a risk like this, it only showed that she didn't understand them as well as she thought.

The thought of a Goa'uld, unchecked inside the city of Atlantis… Dr. Weir couldn't possibly understand.

* * *

Perhaps Sheppard should have realized, when the water spread across the chair room in a matter of seconds that they were in trouble. Instead, he and Kaczynski proceeded to another hallway, in an effort to get ahead of the rush of water— only to find the water was here as well.

"What the hell's going on, sir?" Kaczynski asked; Sheppard didn't know what to tell him. He didn't understand it himself.

"Looks like we're flooding," he muttered, if only to give some kind of answer, however half-assed, to the nervous marine. "Power couldn't have dropped so bad that we can't stay up anymore," he added for himself, trying to believe that the city couldn't be sinking again… If it was, it was without a shield, and he knew for a fact that they had a completely powered ZPM. _This is just a malfunction… a leak… We're not sinking_.

However comforting that might have been, it didn't do a whole lot of good as the water was now swirling around their calves.

"Sir…" The man's strained voice caught Sheppard's attention again. "If it keeps going like this, it doesn't matter where the city is, we'll be underwater."

The colonel tried to not get aggravated with him. "I realize that marine. Now I'd like to realize a way up from this level," he added, trying to go over the options. "There's always that access way," he mused.

Kaczynski gave him a confused look, not following the soldier's reasoning.

"The access way," Sheppard repeated. "We wait beneath it, if the water floods that high, we float up and crawl through." Of course, that left other variables. Like if there was a current in the water… whether they'd be able to tread water that long if the water rose slowly, or if they'd have time to get through the access way where swimming wasn't an option if the water rose too fast. He gestured for Kaczynski to go ahead, and followed, both men sloshing along.

_Or if the water is freezing_, he added; it now came up to his knees and made his leg muscles start to seize up, looking deep black and somehow more ominous in the limited shafts of light from their torches.

He muttered, "When it rains…"

* * *

_Had to be an ocean planet_. Ronon shook his head, and continued to wade through the steadily rising water. It was getting too high to easily run through, but was still too low to swim, which was seriously slowing their progress.

In the middle of the night, the water wasn't exactly _warm_, either, but then, he'd felt worse. The Satedan glanced around to check on Teyla— she wasn't offering any complaint either, though her lips were pressed into a thin line… Ronon had to wonder if that was for their current situation, or the mess Atlantis was in.

A sudden shock of ice stopped both of them in their tracks. He saw Teyla gasp as the cold water rushed around her abdomen, stealing some of her breath. "Are you all—"

"Fine," she cut him off with a wave, though her voice was somewhat strained.

They turned their attentions to finding the source of the temperature change. None was apparent, at first— it was when they passed into another hallway, a door dividing it from the next, that they saw sign of temperature drop. The whole door, and a good deal of the walls beyond it were covered in frost and ice.

"I'm guessing that section is where it gets really cold," Ronon noted, ignoring the fact that it was already quite cold just where _they_ were.

Teyla wasn't quite so blasé about it, though. "If so, we will never be able to cross through it." She frowned as Ronon placed the long blade of the Wraith stunner into the crack of the door.

He gave a heave, trying to lever it open. "We don't have time to find a different way."

Unfortunately, it worked— and the temperature of the water _they_ were standing in felt like it dropped another twenty degrees as the arctic air blasted out of the chamber— not to mention as its water intermingled with that in the hallway. Through the crack in the door, Teyla could see what she thought was a thin sheet of ice, on _top_ of the water.

"We may not have a choice," she pointed out, almost able to keep her teeth from chattering.

Ronon grunted, pulling himself away from the frozen door. "All right," he finally admitted, starting to shiver himself. "What do you suggest?" he asked, perhaps a bit more harshly than normal.

Giving pause to that thought for a moment, the Athosian woman glanced around. "Outside," she said at length.

He seemed to consider it for a second, before grinning… and again, it was harsher than was usual.

By this time, it was easy to swim— by depth of water, at any rate. Their limbs were cold and sluggish, and failed to work how they wanted them to. It took quite a while of fumbling through the water before either Ronon or Teyla was able to move with any kind of purpose— and the stunner each carried didn't make things easier.

They were just lucky that the path they had intended to follow was up one side of the pier, and kept them close to the outside, because by the time they reached an intervening door, the water had already filled up most of the hallway, and was easily past the door. Ronon passed off his stunner to Teyla, who treaded water. For his part, he dove under, trying to get a grip on the door— to no avail. It was simply too slippery, and his fingers too clumsy after the time spent in frigid waters.

He resurfaced, spluttering. "Not working," he managed to get out.

It was then that he felt something being pressed into his hands— Teyla was returning his stunner. "Perhaps we should try your way again," she suggested, brandishing the long, curved blade of the Wraith weapon for emphasis.

Ronon paused for a moment to catch his breath before nodding, and submerging once again. This time Teyla was with him, and they both quickly wedged their weapons in the door panels— it took only a few seconds for the doors to slide apart, and perhaps a few more after that to widen the gap enough to fit through. All the same, both were grateful to surface in the open on the other side, both in the fresh air, and the water which was, by comparison, warm.

"Come on," the Satedan said, not wanting to stay in any one place too long and wear down their strength before they even got to their final destination.

It was not that they moved so much faster or easier out here, though somehow it felt like both. _Perhaps_, Teyla reflected, _it is the sense of being in the open_. Being stuck within the walls of the City, water rapidly rising to trap them, had been a… disturbing experience, at least. Glancing down, she could almost see the lowest deck of the city, some eight or ten feet beneath her in the starlight. Another reminder of the trouble Atlantis was in. She tried to put more speed into her stroke, awkward though it was, encumbered by the unwieldy Wraith stunner.

She was somewhat aware of passing Ronon, and hesitated… Teyla quickly realized it was not her who had been moving faster, but he who had stopped, next to an alcove in the City's wall.

"Look," Ronon pointed out, and Teyla searched the water for whatever he was trying to show her. When she did not see what he did, he elaborated. "The water… it's running that way."

The realization struck Teyla, and for a moment she had to wonder at the fact that she hadn't noticed it sooner. And the water was very definitely flowing, which meant they had to be getting close.

It made sense, after all, for their saboteur to be in a section where the pumps still worked correctly, thus leaving water levels lower than the surrounding area. And of course, water never ran unless it had somewhere to run to…

* * *

Military uniforms and combat boots were _not_ swim gear. Not in the slightest. And of course, tonight had to be the night where he'd actually bothered lacing his boots properly if hurriedly before he rushed out to meet the latest crisis. Those alone were making it eminently difficult to swim.

Combined with the cold, stealing the strength from their muscles… He shot a glance over at the marine on his left, and saw Kaczynski similarly struggling. In fact, he looked like he was doing _worse_, and it didn't take long for the colonel to figure out why. In one hand was his flashlight; in the other, the Wraith gun.

"Kaczynski… Marine!" he barked, not having time for gentler methods of attention grabbing. "Just drop the stunner."

The other man's head jerked up and down, and he released hold on the alien technology. If Sheppard had hoped it would keep the marine afloat a little longer, it wasn't looking that way.

The water was just now getting high enough to take his feet off the floor, but he kept slipping under, as his body didn't want to stay stretched out straight and tall. Then, the flashlight he was holding decided to flicker out and die. Sheppard tried to curse, but only got a mouthful of seawater for the effort.

"This isn't gonna work," Sheppard spat, trying to clear his mouth of the salty water. The hole in the ceiling was still a good five or six feet _above_ them, and they were already having trouble. "Corporal," he said, abandoning the waterlogged and useless flashlight and using the hand to grab Kaczynski by his vest. "We need to find another way."

"Y-yes sir," the marine managed to get out through gritted teeth, voice wavering the slightest.

"Are their any stairs," Sheppard said, realizing he was shuddering as well, "that wouldn't require us opening any more doors to get to?"

Kaczynski shook his head, before saying, "No sir." He could see the steadily growing anxiety in his commanding officer's expression, and it only made him that much more nervous. He realized that there was little the colonel could do, even less that he couldn't already do himself. _Come on… got to come up with something_, he told himself, trying to help. "There should be on f-further down this hall," he said, somewhat breathlessly. "That's why we came this way in the first place."

Sheppard nodded, before starting to swim in that direction, Kaczynski on his tail.

* * *

The first door had gone well enough… if by well, you meant, painstaking, both in the literary _and_ literal senses of the word. Sheppard was losing feeling in his extremities, and as he struggled to keep his legs from sinking under him, he wished he had had the foresight to remove his boots while he still could.

Kaczynski was sure the stairwell was just beyond the second door, which Sheppard assumed he was heading for, until he ran into a wall… again. With only the one light between them both, it was difficult to keep track of the exact boundaries of the hall. He'd have muttered, but didn't have breath to spare. It was taking a whole lot of effort just to not _sink_. He couldn't spare any to _complain_. Not if they were gonna get out of this mess. He'd just point out to Lorne later that when living in a city in the middle of the ocean, it would be prudent to _use waterproof gear_.

"Here we are, sir," Kaczynski managed to get out, trying to tread water at the end of the hall and shine his flashlight down at the door below. Sheppard came up next to the marine, faring little better.

"Let's do this thing," he said, spluttering a little, but he saw the half-grin on Kaczynski's face, and figured it was worth the salt water.

It wasn't difficult to get under the surface. Both men sank more than dove, just trying to do so as close to the door as they could. Then they got to the business of trying to pry the panels apart. They were starting to slide open, bit by bit.

The next thing Sheppard knew, he was in total darkness. After a few frantic moments, he calmed down enough to realize Kaczynski must have accidentally hit the button on his flashlight, or it died. But then he remembered that he was under water in the dark, and not floating very well.

He tried to kick for the surface, not exactly sure he was headed in the right direction, when one of his legs knocked into something, which gave a little in return. Instantly he pulled his legs back in, realizing he had just kicked his comrade, and instead, searched with his hands, eventually finding Kaczynski's form under the water with him. The marine was moving— realizing they had found each other, hopefully— but not much. Sheppard found a front panel of the other man's vest and stuffed his arm through it.

By now, he was feeling the need to breathe— still not sure of the location of the surface, he did the next best thing, and began exhaling slowly, a small stream of bubbles escaping his lips. They seemed to run up the side of his face, and he tried to get turned around towards that direction, hoping it was up. As he did so, his free arm brushed something hard and smooth.

But had he found the floor or a wall? His head was starting to feel numb… His _head_.

It was time to decide, or sit there and drown. Sheppard no longer had any air to blow out, and his lungs were aching along with the rest of him. Hoping his arm was still in the corporal's vest, because he certainly couldn't feel it, he kicked off the hard surface he had found.

He ran face first into yet another surface, and exhaled somewhat in the surprise— before his burning lungs forced him to take in water on reflex alone, though, his head came up, breaking over the water, and he gasped wildly.

"Oh sweet mother of God," he rasped, panting for breath. True, he wasn't exactly a religious person, but he was willing to give any higher powers the benefit of the doubt this time. Beside him, the marine surfaced as well; Kaczynski was coughing and spitting up water, for which he was grateful. If the marine couldn't have breathed on his own or had fallen unconscious, there wouldn't have been a whole lot he could do about it. "Hey… you okay?"

"Colonel?" He could hear Kaczynski splashing around nearby, and fumbled blindly until his arm brushed against the other man's. They quickly locked onto each other, so as to not lose track of one another in the dark.

"Right here, marine," he replied, trying to be reassuring. It was somewhat difficult, when all he could think of, was, _shit, but we're screwed_. McKay must have been rubbing off on him, he added, a bitter smile unseen on his face. _And the water's still rising._ Another joy in was looking to be a _wonderful_ day.

Sheppard could hear the noises of effort the marine was making— it was taking everything he had to keep his head above the water, and the officer could sympathize. Kaczynski finally managed to work up enough breath to ask another question, one that Sheppard wasn't honestly sure of the answer to. "So… what now, sir?"


	11. Dawning

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Monday, 13 August 2007**

* * *

**Chapter 10: Dawning**

* * *

What now.

"That's a… damn… good question," Sheppard managed to get out, finding it harder and harder to keep his face above the water level. He tilted his head back, trying to just float instead of putting all his effort into treading water, but he knew even that was dangerous. He was losing what little body heat he had left by submerging his neck and part of his head. "That door was partly open, right?" he asked at length. The colonel was sure it had been, but then, he was also fairly sure that hypothermia wasn't conducive to good memory.

"Mm..hmm…" Kaczynski replied, feeling the effects of the cold himself. "You… wanna try and get through?" he asked, somehow managing to sound a little incredulous.

Sheppard let out a short bark of laughter. "You'd rather stay here?"

The corporal winced, getting a bit of saltwater in his mouth in the process. He shook his head, despite their pitch black surroundings. "No," he added. "Guess not."

"Okay," the colonel said, and Kaczynski thought he could feel the other man release him. "Let's try and find the right wall first, before we start trying to dive or anything."

_Sounds like a plan_, Kaczynski thought, bringing one shivering arm up from the water, blindly feeling for the edge of the hall.

* * *

Instead of slowing their pace, Teyla and Ronon had found this last leg of their excursion to be the fastest— power was most definitely on in this section, with pumps moving enough water out that once they were inside, they could wade along the lower levels instead of swim.

It was unnerving.

_It shouldn't be this easy_, Ronon thought. There should have been more resistance. More traps, especially so close. Though part of him pointed out, _getting here __**wasn't**__ easy,_ something deeper told him to stay on edge.

"Looks like they're not down here," he muttered, but Teyla shook her head, placing one finger over her lips. Ronon frowned, but did as she wanted and fell silent— as silent as one could be, breathing heavy and dripping water. Ahead, the Athosian woman was creeping through the water, towards another door leading outside the city— just beyond it was a short staircase, where water was flowing quite rapidly.

"There," she said, pointing. Teyla wasn't sure of what made her so certain, but she was. It was the only place.

Ronon's frown deepened, though. "That balcony would be almost underwater."

She shook her head yet again. "Look at the water's flow. There must be a pump close by that keeps the water levels low enough."

The Satedan sized up the stairwell again, fighting the sudden urge to storm through the door and up the stairs, and plant a very large boot in the face of whoever was sabotaging their city. "That's going to make getting up there hard," he said, instead, reluctantly. They'd have to fight the current to get up those stairs, leaving them vulnerable. "We're gonna have to find another way."

He glanced over at Teyla, who was staring up at the stairs, at the point where the wall blocked the rest from sight— and with them, their enemy. "Perhaps we should split up," she finally said, before dropping her gaze and exchanging a meaningful look with Ronon.

* * *

Carrozales and Riley, not to mention the medical personnel, stared at their command staff nervously. When Dr. Weir glanced over at them, they quickly made themselves busy securing Beckett to the stretcher he had been placed on, gathering up medical equipment— anything to avoid hers or Major Lorne's gaze.

To see arguments among their leaders was a rarity— the implication that Dr. Beckett was now a threat had thrown most of them for a loop. When the major had pulled his gun on the unconscious doctor, Carrozales had just about drawn his own weapon, thinking something was wrong with his commanding officer. But not only had Major Lorne been acting sane… Weir had treated him seriously; both now wore dark, unsettled expressions, but weren't letting on as to what this was all about. Carrozales glanced over at Riley, surprised to see that his teammate had a similarly grim look on his face. "Qué pasa?" he muttered, and Riley started.

Realizing it was Carrozales asking, he sighed. "You never served in the SGC, did you?" The man shook his head, and Riley hesitated, letting Lorne, Weir, and the med staff get ahead; Carrozales hung back with him. After a moment longer, Riley shook _his_ head. "Man, you don't _want_ to know." When the other marine scowled, he tilted his head to the side, thinking of what to say. _How do you explain this kind of thing to someone?_

Giving in, he recounted what he knew about the parasitical creatures— one of which could well be in Dr. Carson Beckett— watching Carrozales grow more and more pale as they walked on through Atlantis. At one point, he thought the guy was going to throw up, and hastily cut story-time short.

When they reached the next stairwell, Riley noticed Carrozales hesitate to move up and help with the stretcher. Stepping up himself, before Major Lorne noticed, Riley helped lift it up over the first few stairs— Carrozales pulled himself together, aiding with the other end of the stretcher.

They hadn't gone more than a few feet like this, before someone ducked over the top of the stairwell and gasped, catching the assembled party's attention. Flashlights and weapons were trained onto a female scientist who let out a yelp of fear, recoiling slightly. Weir raised one hand to call off the military personnel— the two marines noticed that their commanding officer didn't ease up, instead turning to face the stretcher they were holding, finger still close to the trigger.

"Dr. Kusanagi?" Weir called, meanwhile, not noticing the officer's behavior.

The woman looked over at them again, nodding. "Dr. Weir," she replied, relief evident in her voice. "And— _oh,_" she said, covering her mouth with one hand. "Is Dr. Beckett alright?" she asked, anxiously.

One of the medics responded, saying, "He will be if we can get him to the infirmary."

Kusanagi winced, causing Weir and the others below to frown. "I'm afraid the infirmary is currently unusable."

"What do you mean?" Lorne asked, feeling even more ill at ease. Weir glanced over at the Air Force officer, and he caught her expression— she realized, at least, that they needed to get Beckett to the MRI scanner in there, he decided. "What's wrong with it?"

Starting to come down the stairs so as not to have to shout, Kusanagi fiddling with the glasses on her face. "It's all but frozen over in there," she said, almost apologetically. Weir could see that the woman didn't take being the bearer of bad news that well— she was too distracted by the news itself, though, to take much further notice.

"Frozen?" she asked, growing alarmed. "What's been happening in the past few hours?" she demanded.

It was Kusanagi's turn to look perplexed. "The whole city's been malfunctioning," she said, almost uncertainly.

Weir seemed taken aback, and Lorne took that moment to intervene again. "The _whole_ city?" he repeated. "We know the power was going out…"

"_Oh_," the small woman started, "that's not the half of it. Environmental controls, communications, quarantine protocol," she listed, ticking each one off on her fingers. "Water pumps, fire suppression—"

"Wait, wait, water pumps?" Lorne broke in. "I can get the others, but… what could be wrong with the pumps, we're not under water," he said. Beside him, Weir could feel the hair on the back of her neck rising up.

Kusanagi's lips thinned for a moment, as she exhaled loudly through her nose. "Not yet," she remarked.

Weir seized upon that statement instantly— "_Yet?_ The city is sinking?" The security team froze, realizing as she did what that could mean for their comrades below them.

"Not actively, no," Kusanagi said, expression darkening. "But the pumps are apparently now running in reverse— we're taking on water," she said, not noticing that she was losing the attention of her audience. "The lowest sections are already all but completely flooded." Lorne and Weir were now staring at each other again, their argument of earlier forgotten as their minds drifted down several levels, simultaneous realizations painting horror on their faces.

* * *

Kaczynski's hands ran along the wall beneath him, and he flexed his fingers, trying to force some feeling back into them. "Sir!" he finally called, realizing that his teeth were now chattering— he clenched his jaw shut, embarrassed, but his shivering gave him away, even as he exhaled loudly. "I think I found it," he muttered, hearing the slight splashes as Sheppard tried to find his way over in the dark.

"Good job, Corporal," Sheppard said, trying to steady himself against the wall. "Come on, let's get this over with," he added. If they didn't do something soon, it'd have the same results as getting it wrong. A real do or die moment, he reflected, before deciding he didn't like that idiom.

He heard Kaczynski take a deep breath, and imitated the marine, before submerging himself again, this time the temperature not making it so horrible. The only spots on him where he really felt the cold anymore were his chest and head, which the colonel supposed was a mixed blessing. Fumbling blindly across the wall, his hand suddenly slid through an opening that shouldn't have been there— he gave thanks silently.

Trying to make his fingers work, Sheppard placed one boot in the crack to give himself some leverage. He thought he could feel Kaczynski doing the same close by, and after several long moments, Sheppard felt the door give. Only an inch or two at first, but then a foot, and then, it was halfway open. Feeling for the marine, Sheppard eventually found the man's forearm, and his hand closed upon it, before pushing Kaczynski towards the opening. They didn't have time to try and surface for air— they needed to get to that staircase before the cold killed them.

After feeling Kaczynski go through, Sheppard moved to follow him. Strangely, his limbs worked only sluggishly, and he wondered what was wrong, pausing halfway through. He didn't feel cold. He… didn't really feel much of anything. Except maybe weary.

Tired… he was definitely tired…

* * *

_One step at a time_. Forgoing any sense of dignity, Teyla leaned forward, using her free hand to help her up the stairs.

She hadn't realized how much water was coming over them. It was a struggle not to be pushed back off, and even harder to remain silent in that struggle.

The early Lantean sunrise was probably about an hour or so off— the sky was definitely lighter, and taking on a green, yellowed tinge. It cast dim shadows about the area, and Teyla only hoped that hers would not betray her. Or, she thought, with a pang of worry, that the light would reveal Ronon.

Peeking around the corner, she could see a someone settled on the balcony's railing, blithely tapping away at something in their lap, as water rushed under said rail, flooding the balcony and creating the current that she was now fighting. But her mind gradually turned from the current, and focused more on the man sitting in front of her.

A kind of sick feeling worked its way into Teyla's stomach. The figure was relaxed, its movements strangely graceful while it sat straight backed, regarding its work with a half smile. But the person's silhouette was familiar, despite the strange demeanor. Impossibly familiar…

Teyla licked her lips, her mouth suddenly feeling very dry. "Rodney?"

McKay's head snapped up, and he started a little. "Teyla? Oh thank _God_," he said, sounding relieved and even a little frightened— in stark contrast to what she had just witnessed. Had it been a trick of the light?

"Rodney," she repeated, still uncertain. "What are you doing?" He followed her line of sight to the tablet sitting on his lap.

"Oh!" he said with a note of realization. "Well what do you think I'm trying to do?" McKay asked, as if it should have been obvious. "I'm trying to fix the City! Have you seen what's happening?" He watched Teyla slowly rise, moving towards him through the water, and his eyes widened as he saw the stunner in her hand. "What's that for?" McKay asked, his voice holding a slight tremor.

Teyla ignored him. "I _have_ seen Atlantis. It is suffering many problems, everywhere in the City." She stopped, about halfway between him and the stairs, regarding him carefully. "Everywhere but here."

"What?" McKay replied, incredulous. He set his tablet down on the wide railing, before sliding off, splashing slightly in the foot-or-so-deep water. "You don't think _I_— whoa!"

McKay came to a halt as Teyla's stunner came up to face him. "Come no closer," she warned him. "Or I will fire."

"What are you doing?" McKay demanded. "Teyla, it's _me_. Rodney, remember?" he said, voice going a bit high. "I _came_ here because it was the only place that was safe. So I could fix everything!" He licked his lips nervously, eyeing the weapon in her hands. "Think! Why would I try to sabotage Atlantis?"

The Athosian narrowed her eyes, wary. "I would like to know that myself." Perhaps she would have been more willing to accept the proof before her if she had not seen the physicist's earlier behavior— it had seemed so… incongruous. Too much did not add up.

"Of course," he concluded, nodding helplessly. McKay let out a nervous laugh, starting to shuffle to the side. "A stunner. Nice," he remarked, trying to seem impressed but sounding only frightened. The front of the weapon dipped slightly as Teyla began to wonder if she might be wrong. "Wish I had thought of that," he continued, trying to edge past the Athosian, hands going down to feel at the wall behind him. Teyla took one menacing step forward, halting McKay's attempts to get past her. He swallowed. "Pity, really…" he said, forcing a smile, starting to bring one placating hand back up. "All I thought to bring was… this."

Many things seemed to happen at once: Teyla realized that McKay had _not_ been reaching for the wall and his hand was not placatingly empty at about the same time the Beretta let out a thunderous report.

Crying out in surprise, Teyla scrambled to duck, slipping and ending up on her hands and knees in the water.

Snapping her head frantically up, Teyla grew very still, seeing McKay pointing an M9 at her head, little expression on his face, but for a small smile.


	12. Confrontation

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Tuesday, 14 August 2007**

A/N: I hear a lot of you are concerned about Ronon's whereabouts.

I say: lemme alone! ;D

I try to keep my chapters within a certain range of length. Sometimes they end up cut short (or, most of the time, I have to write more because I don't have enough). Especially as we're in a stage of the story focusing on a whole bunch of characters in different places, that can create issues where some characters aren't covered in a particular chapter. Don't worry; we'll draw everything back together soon (…ish).

* * *

**Chapter 11: Confrontation**

* * *

Sweet, _sweet_, blessed air! But that wasn't what really got him. Kaczynski felt like crying out in relief as he saw the stairwell dimly illuminated in weak light, ebbing in through a window somewhere up above him.

"W-we did it sir," he said. For a long while, he hadn't thought he would ever reach the surface, but here he was, and a chance to stop, to _rest_, was just a few feet away. "Colonel?" he asked, turning to the strangely silent man.

Who wasn't there. "Colonel?" he repeated, anxiety rising, feebly fumbling around in the water. "_Shit!_ Colonel Sheppard!"

Kaczynski started up a litany of cussing in his mind, still turning and hoping he had just missed Sheppard. But no, the man wasn't there. Of course he wasn't.

Trying to inhale as much as he could in his constricted lungs, Kaczynski floundered a second longer, before sinking back into the water.

Everything seemed to be a blur, and he couldn't tell if it was the light, or maybe his eyes just weren't working right. His eyelids felt heavy as he blinked once, focusing on what he thought was the door they had come through. It took a few seconds to get over there— there was definitely movement, which _had_ to be the colonel.

Kaczynski tried to grab the man's vest, but couldn't make his hand work. Instead, he hooked his arm awkwardly around Sheppard's, and kicked against the wall— or tried. It moved them a couple of inches, but it seemed to be enough to get the idea into Sheppard's head— he slowly twisted, pulling himself the rest of the way through the door, while Kaczynski tried to get them moving towards the surface.

The seconds seemed to be as listless as the two soldiers, drifting by slowly, until, after Kaczynski was sure he was just going to pass out underwater—

Both men spat out water that they had just been unable to keep from pulling into their mouths— looking at each other, they were sorry sights indeed. Pale, lips turning blue, barely even shaking now— it took every ounce of effort they could muster to get to the stairwell that rose out of the water, like some kind of godsend from on high, without drifting right back to the floor.

At long, long last, they were there, dragging themselves up onto the staircase. Now drawing ragged breaths, Kaczynski looked over at Sheppard again, who had paused to rest, halfway in the water. For his part, Kaczynski had collapsed a few steps out of it— didn't really matter to him if he made it all the way out, he was soaked anyhow. But he was out of the water. He was _out_. For some strange reason, the marine felt laughter bubbling up in him, though all it came out as was breathy rasping. His lopsided grin was infectious though— Sheppard caught sight of the goofy look on his subordinate's face and couldn't help but give a small smile of his own. Looking back down at the water, though, it soon began to fade.

"Don't celebrate… just yet," he whispered, starting to fight to pull himself up onto the next step.

Kaczynski gave his commanding officer a puzzled look. "S…sir?"

Sheppard gestured towards the body of water beneath them with a jerk of his head. "Water's still rising."

* * *

_Damn water… damn it all!_ Ronon worked his way through the ocean, but whatever pump in this area was still working was drawing the water back down towards it.

Drawing _him_ back down towards where he started.

At first, it had seemed the quickest solution to get the drop on whoever was sitting up on that balcony was to simply swim out into the ocean, past the current, then come up behind the balcony where the water was still flowing over it. It would take him right where he needed to go, and they'd never suspect an attack from the water.

Except _getting_ there was proving to be problematic.

Pausing to brace himself against an outer wall of Atlantis, Ronon stretched, trying to not only loosen his muscles, but also get a better vantage on their enemy. He could almost see them now… a few more feet and maybe he could get a clear view.

Ronon frowned, watching the figure in the distance. They were moving… reacting… looking at… _shit, Teyla!_ he thought, frustrated— they had agreed to wait! What would have possessed her to move before he got there?

Sliding awkwardly along the wall, trying to keep out of the current's control, Ronon unconsciously curled his hands into fists as he grew closer… He recognized that person. McKay. It was goddamned _McKay_. An incredible amount of anger surged through him then— that the scientist would betray Atlantis and his teammates like this… even as he now worked back into open water, trying to get past the worst of the current and work around towards the balcony, he could feel the ire in him cool, as he realized he hadn't yet seen Teyla… did it mean the other man hadn't found her… or…

As if in answer, the sound of a gun being fired— a real, military gun, not a Wraith stunner— rolled back over him. "_No!_" he couldn't help but cry.

The Satedan's hand tightened around his borrowed weapon until his knuckles were stark white. With teeth clenched as well, Ronon put his all into making the distance as quickly as he could… and he would snap McKay's frail little neck if he had hurt their friend…

* * *

After a moment, McKay shook his head. "You had to go and be clever. You should know better, Teyla," he admonished, an extra dangerous note in his condescending words. "You should just kick ass and look sexy. Don't try and be smart. It doesn't suit you."

The gall rose in Teyla, moderated only by the thought that this couldn't be Rodney McKay. All the same, she lurched to one side, trying to regain her feet. A second report sounded and the water to her left exploded. Flinching again, Teyla froze, before glaring back at McKay who let out a small laugh, gun still trained on her. "Rodney," she said, voice harsh and commanding. "Stop what you are doing."

"Or what?" he challenged. "In case you haven't noticed, I _do_ have a gun in this hand, and, well," he added, sounding as though he were speaking to a child, "I could try and explain the physics to you, but I doubt you'd follow. Suffice to say," McKay said, looking and sounding as smug as ever, "the likelihood of you getting a chance to stop me before I shoot you are astronomical." The calm surety of the words chilled Teyla to the bone.

Slowly, carefully, she extended her arms to either side, careful to keep the stunner pointed skywards. Teyla then began to rise.

McKay stiffened, finger tightening on the trigger, giving a sound of warning. The Athosian froze once more, dropping back to one knee. "_Don't_," he said, voice low and expressions twisted into what was almost a sneer. "You are _not_ in control here. The only reason you're still alive is because I want to know where your backup is."

_He would,_ she realized. He would shoot her… _kill_ her… if he saw reason to. "Backup?" she asked, feigning ignorance.

McKay tilted his head, eyes narrowing in anger. "What did I tell you about getting smart?" He stalked forward, and Teyla stiffened up, before feeling the Wraith stunner being jerked from her hand. Then McKay was there again, only a few feet away, Beretta pointing at her unerringly. Ready to shoot her, point blank. "Where's Ronon?" he asked, voice growing cool once more.

It took a measure of self control not to gape; _how did he know?_ she asked herself. Had he seen them coming up the pier together? Was he even now laying a trap for Ronon? …But this was _McKay!_ Rodney, her friend— and now here he was, threatening her, hunting their teammate… The idea that something in him had changed the man to this extreme frightened her, far more than the actual threats he delivered. Despite her fears, Teyla managed to remain calm, appearing even a little puzzled. "He is on another pier, searching for the source of the damage," she lied.

McKay shook his head again, though his eyes stayed locked on hers. "The problem with trying to trick me," he said, taking another step towards her— Teyla felt her stomach flip— "is that _I know you_. Like I know you'd never come out here alone."

Teyla took a deep breath, as though trying to resign herself to something, and McKay couldn't hide the wicked delight in his eyes. The Athosian brought her eyes up— locked onto his. For a moment, she thought she caught the dawning comprehension in them.

But by then, she was already in motion. Teyla flung herself to the side, letting one leg fly out the other way, counterbalanced and spinning with an exactness and power— McKay had no hope to move out of the way before Teyla's foot caught him in the stomach; letting out a sound of pain, he stumbled back, and she completed the spin, using her hands and momentum to push herself up. When McKay brought his head up, expression fierce, she was already there, and snapped a blow into his face that sent him tumbling backwards.

As McKay collapsed, Teyla hesitated. She could see dark blood running from the scientist's nose… despite his earlier actions, she gained no satisfaction from injuring him. Even as he began to stir again, the Athosian moved towards the man. There was nothing now he could do to her.

With a somewhat dismal expression, she regarded him, moving towards his side, where McKay still gripped the stunner he had taken from her. Teyla could see McKay lift his head, lethargically.

With an unexpected and unnatural speed and precision, he brought he Wraith stunner to bear— Teyla didn't have time to register it before its high pitched whine filled her ears, and the muscles in her body locked up, wracked with pain. Very suddenly, she was besieged by the feeling of _cold_— it was with a spike of fear that Teyla realized she had collapsed into the water, and couldn't breathe. Her vision faded into and out of darkness, and she struggled to rise, eliciting only small twitches in her arms and legs.

The seconds crept by, agonizingly slow, as Teyla fought for control of her body, trying to force herself not to inhale on reflex. All she could see was the murky, shifting twilight through the flowing water; together with the lack of breath, disorienting and threatening to steal consciousness from the helpless woman. Finally, she was able to slide one arm under her torso, and poured all her strength into pushing herself up. She rose haltingly, shaking, but the moment her face passed the surface, Teyla gasped for air— her lungs did not want to work properly, taking only a minute amount before her arm gave out and she was under again, fighting to resurface. Before she slipped though, she glimpsed McKay, standing a few feet away, watching calmly, as if they had not fought just seconds before.

As Teyla rose a second time, her eyes found McKay's once more; he was smirking.

"Nice job," he remarked, looking somewhat impressed. "For a second there I thought you weren't going to make it."

It was almost impossible to comprehend. McKay had not only shot her, but had watched her nearly drown… he had deliberately left her there… unconcerned, whether she died or not. As Teyla refocused on him, there was a new sense of revulsion in her expression… and even hatred.

McKay kneeled down next to her— the Athosian woman longed to reach out and strike the man, but she could barely keep her head above the water, much less make a move to attack him. He seemed aware of this fact, putting his face mere inches from hers. "Where's Ronon?" When she didn't answer, he lashed out with one hand, seizing her shoulder and pushing her down towards the water.

It was with an impossible amount of strength that McKay held her there, half in and half out of the ocean current. Even weakened as she was, Teyla realized that this couldn't be McKay— there was no way the scientist could have so much power to his under-trained form, to speak nothing of the callousness with which he was using it. Resisting as much as she could, Teyla soon found she had to devote as much strength just to keep her face twisted up out of the water.

"You came here with someone," he stated calmly, ignoring the grunts and cries of strain from the woman beneath him. "Now, I know John is in the lower levels of the City with Carson and Elizabeth— underwater, by now," he said, eliciting a gasp from Teyla that had her spluttering— even that split-second spent unawares had been enough to slip back under the surface halfway. "So it's not him. Next best thing is Ronon, right?" McKay asked, almost conversationally. Teyla glared upwards, eyes almost frantic, and felt a surge of anger at his calm contentedness.

Gritting her teeth, Teyla gathered her arm under her, before snapping her elbow up into McKay's face. The scientist staggered back, and Teyla lurched upwards, spitting out a mouthful of water. Not sparing a moment, she turned to watch McKay, sliding backwards— none too soon, as he recovered quickly.

Teyla already had her feet under her, though, and was lunging for him. McKay tried to bring the M9 up, but she seized his wrist, trying to lock it back and prevent him from aiming the gun towards her. Then she kneed him as hard as she possibly could in the groin.

It seemed to have worked for a moment. He sagged forward, seemingly in excruciating pain, and Teyla felt she could almost get the gun from his grasp. Then, however, McKay tore his whole arm to the side, wrenching his hand from Teyla's grip and pistol-whipping her in the process.

She stumbled backwards, a warm wetness now spreading across her cheek, before McKay shoved her to the deck. Then he was on top of her, trying yet again to push her down under the surface— but this time, he didn't have such good leverage, and though it was difficult, she managed to put up enough of a struggle to keep from going under. "You know," McKay grated, flinching backwards as Teyla left several painful scratches across one side of his face, "you're tough," he finished, punctuating his sentence with a blow to the side of Teyla's face. Though Teyla was stunned for only a second, it was enough time for McKay to take control of the fight, and he grabbed both of her wrists, grip so tight as to be painful.

"You could be useful," he told her, a dark look in his eyes.


	13. Caveat

**Ophidia   
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic   
Wednesday, 15 August 2007**

A/N: Yeah, it's up about an hour late, I'm sorry… Short chapter today, folks.

Good news! (No, no lame Geico jokes.) I have this story's ending now (somewhat) planned. Now to get there…

* * *

**Chapter 12: Caveat**

* * *

_Though Teyla was stunned for only a second, it was enough time for McKay to take control of the fight, and he grabbed both of her wrists, grip so tight as to be painful._

"_You could be useful," he told her, a dark look in his eyes._

* * *

_McKay was standing there in front of him, completely unawares. What an idiot. He didn't even have to throw his entire weight behind the punch to take the scientist off his feet either… It seemed this one was just as fragile as the last. Even with his own strength added to it, it would be barely acceptable._

_Of course, were he correct, this would provide… other opportunities… to bring the inhabitants of Atlantis to their knees._

Beckett's eyes came open, and he immediately flinched, only to find that his limbs wouldn't move how he wanted them to— terrified that it wasn't over, that he had only imagined being free from the parasite, the Scot tried to thrash, only to hear alarmed voices around him.

He couldn't get a grasp on his surroundings, but after a few seconds, he saw Weir's face above him, her hands were on his shoulders, frantically telling himself something that didn't quite get through.

Suddenly, Beckett felt his head knocked to the side, and a stinging up the right side of his face.

"Carson!" Stunned into stillness, Beckett looked up incredulously at Weir— _she slapped me!_ She was looking even more alarmed than before, but let out a loud breath as he focused on her and stopped moving. "You're secured to a stretcher," she explained, slowly. "You've been injured, remember?"

Weir watched the man below her pale somewhat and swallow visibly. "Elizabeth," he started, digging his fingers into the foam beneath them, unable to move much more than that. "Please don't leave me like this," he whispered.

Taken aback, Weir's eyes widened, before resolving themselves into a more pained expression. Looking back at Major Lorne, she saw his lips pressed into a thin line; despite their argument of earlier, she couldn't deny that he had cause to be wary, or that he was the ranking military officer right here and now.

Seeing her reaction, Beckett grew worse. "No," he insisted, "You don't understand! A Goa'uld—"

"We know about it," Lorne interrupted quietly. "We know it was in you." The man's expression cowed Beckett, clearly revealing where the major thought it _still_ was.

Weir had turned back to him, and he began to appeal to her once more. "Elizabeth, I was under that thing's control completely, I couldn't even _move_," Beckett pleaded, a tremor detectable in the usually pleasant brogue; "_Please_, don't leave me helpless like this…"

She could see how the restraints would leave him miserable… Weir shuddered to think of what it must have been like for him, having the parasitical Goa'uld controlling him… _and he must have been conscious of everything…_

With a nod to Lorne, she stepped up on one and started undoing the straps' buckles. The major stared at her in disbelief for a moment, before looking away, trying to conceal his anger. After a second, though, he holstered his weapon, moving up to assist her; Weir could see the harsh, jerking movements of his hands from the corner of her eyes, but didn't call him on it.

As soon as the straps were undone, Beckett sat up, swinging his feet over the side of the stretcher and feeling as though he were about to vomit. Hanging his head in his hands, Beckett breathed deeply, rubbing at his temples with his thumbs.

_His_ hands. _His_ face. It was really him, this time. He was alone in his head.

Glancing up, he saw Lorne staring at him with open suspicion. After a moment like this, the major broke eye contact, to look over to the side. "Carrozales! Get over here and help Riley," he ordered, before moving off.

Beckett's eyes followed him; they were in the Gateroom, he realized at last, which looked as though it had been turned into a disaster relief shelter. Stretchers, blankets, with people laying on them, and then just people sitting in clusters on the floor, apparently unable to do anything and now just waiting for something to happen. Lorne, meanwhile, moved up into the control room, and the doctor thought he could see Weir up there as well. There was a definite air of desperation up there— nervous words he couldn't quite hear and people rushing about—

Beckett very nearly got off the stretcher to go see what was going on, before he realized he was under armed guard. Two marines now stood in front of him; one resting his hand on his sidearm, the other holding a Wraith stunner.

One of them, Riley, saw him staring at his weapon and tensed, causing Beckett to recoil slightly, before he let out a long, soft sigh, and dropped his head back to his hands.

He just wanted this all to be over.

* * *

Teyla paused— _Useful?_ —then tried even harder to squirm out from under McKay, growing desperate. Whatever this… _person_… had in mind, she didn't want to find out. It was hard to ignore McKay's face leering down at her, though— no matter how much she wanted to believe this couldn't be her teammate, she couldn't convince herself entirely— and it was getting harder by the second; Teyla gasped as he leaned down closer to her, leaving her no room to move, between McKay and the water.

A high-pitched whine sounded off, and before either of them could react, there was a blue flash and McKay was crying out in pain— his arms seemed to give out on him, and he started to slump forward, but Teyla didn't notice so much as her body was struck with a strange sensation— like she was being assaulted by pins, or how a limb, starved of blood, felt once circulation returned. Straining, she shoved McKay's bulk to one side.

Then someone was roughly pulling the scientist off of her, and Teyla squinted up to see Ronon, looking angrier than she'd ever seen him. Without even having to ask, he stooped to take her arm, helping her up gingerly.

"You all right?" he asked, pushing the one stunner into Teyla's hands, and stooping to collect the other one from the water.

Teyla gave no answer for a moment, trying to go over and understand the events of the last minute or so in her head, now that she had a respite. When Ronon looked up at her, concerned, she shook herself out of it, giving a single, curt nod. A moment later she winced, as the sharp movement made her head hurt— she hadn't realized how much damage she had sustained. _Which brings this back to Rodney… why?_ she asked him silently, seeing the man's form slumped against the nearest wall.

Seeing she was still distracted, Ronon followed Teyla's line of sight, to see it rested on McKay, and his upper lip curled into a rather good imitation of a snarl. "What the hell's wrong with him?" he growled, stalking over slowly and contemplating kicking the stupid bastard.

Teyla made no move to stop him. McKay gave no signs of being conscious, even with the not-so-gentle nudge in the side. Accepting that McKay was stunned, but still not really satisfied, Ronon turned back to Teyla.

"I do not believe that this is Rodney," she said, her eyes never leaving him.

Ronon cast one wary glance back at the downed scientist, before coming to stand alongside Teyla, who was looking the worse for wear. True… he couldn't see McKay as being capable of doing this to her, mentally _or_ physically… or he wouldn't, if he hadn't seen it. "Sure looks like him," he pointed out.

Finally having drawn her eyes away from their unconscious teammate, Teyla gave Ronon a good long stare, which he returned defiantly. After several seconds, Teyla dropped her gaze, realizing that she herself wasn't sure that it wasn't McKay… not anymore.

Out of the corner of her eye, Teyla caught the flash of movement that made her realize they'd been deceived again. Ronon brought up his stunner and fired a shot as McKay let loose with the M9— Teyla slammed into the Satedan, knocking the both of them to the ground, and sparks danced off of the metal of the panel behind them.

Yet again, McKay moved with speed she knew the man did not have— easily regaining his feet, and dashing to the balcony.

Ronon had leapt back up, though Teyla found it harder to rise. McKay had his tablet in hand, and was yelling, "You want to help them, Teyla, you'll need this!" In an instant he had thrown it several meters into the ocean, taking off in a different direction himself. Ronon made to follow the man, but Teyla— remembering his words of earlier, and seeing him tap at that same tablet, cried "_No!_"

She pointed towards the ocean water. "You have to retrieve it! Go, I'll go after Rodney!"

After a moment's hesitation, Ronon turned and clambered over the railing, diving after the sinking tablet, though she didn't miss the frustration on his face before he did so.

_Now_, she thought, moving after McKay again. _Now we will discover who you really are_.


	14. Stopgap

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Thursday, 16 August 2007**

* * *

**Chapter 13: Stopgap**

* * *

_Teyla pointed towards the ocean water. "You have to retrieve it! Go, I'll go after Rodney!"_

_After a moment's hesitation, Ronon turned and clambered over the railing, diving after the sinking tablet._

_Now, she thought, moving after McKay again. Now we will discover who you really are._

* * *

Teyla's stunner preceded her, and this time when she caught glimpse of McKay running ahead, she fired without pause, growing ever more agitated as it missed.

Ahead, the scientist ducked around a corner, only to spin back out and fire at her. Teyla took a step sideways herself, flinching as the metal ricocheted off of the panel ahead of her. If she could keep him running like this, he would run out of ammunition eventually.

However, as they moved further from the area that was being drained, the water grew higher, making it that much more difficult to get through. Ahead, McKay ducked through a door that led inside the City. Moving cautiously, Teyla approached the same door, ducking low before stepping close enough to open it.

She was in a two storied room, near the top of a staircase. The water was running past her legs and spilling over the edges of the upper floor to fill the room below. Carefully, she scrutinized what she could see of the watery location in the early light, seeing no sign of the scientist. Hope began to diminish as she moved down the stairs— the water was very clear; he could not be hiding beneath its surface. At last on the bottom floor, submerged up to her waist, Teyla moved about, but found nothing. She exhaled loudly, closing her eyes.

"Teyla!" The voice seemed to have come from outside, but she did not answer immediately.

Letting out a small yell of frustration, the woman slammed the stunner into a nearby table. She heard Ronon calling her name again, more anxiously this time, and called, "I'm here!" As the large man emerged at the top of a staircase in the wide room, she added, clearly upset, "He escaped."

After a moment of considering what to say, Ronon realized that nothing would help, and instead climbed down to join her. When he reached the bottom, he held up the tablet— some water seemed to have seeped under the edges of the screen, but amazingly it was still working. Teyla nodded after a moment. "You gonna tell me why getting this thing was more important than getting McKay?" he asked, after another pause.

Teyla closed her eyes again, knowing full well that the latter likely would _not _have happened had she not stopped Ronon from going after McKay. When she opened them though, there seemed to be a fire in her expression. "There are people trapped in the lower levels of the City, including John and Elizabeth, in imminent danger. _That_ is how he was sabotaging Atlantis, and how it will be undone," she added, nodding to the thing in Ronon's hand.

Still not happy, but at least less annoyed, Ronon gave the device in his hands a good look. "You have any idea how to work this?" he eventually asked.

Teyla hesitated before answering. "No," she eventually admitted. Glancing around, her eyes fell on another piece of technology, mounted handily to the wall. "But perhaps we do not need to."

* * *

Lorne was getting regular updates from the medical staff— in part, because he was helping run things up here. But mostly because he wanted to know whenever someone new had been retrieved. And still, the two he found himself growing most anxious about hadn't been found yet.

For a moment, he paused just beyond the city-wide lifesigns detector. Some scientists were playing with it— they could get it to display every once in a while, but they couldn't get it to shift the display. Such as, to the sublevel the chair was situated on. He had left a standing order with them to make that the first level they checked if they found a way to fix it.

Moving back to the center of the Control Room, he stood next to Weir, who was talking quietly with the technician fighting with the communication controls. After a few seconds, she rose to look at him, but Lorne shook his head. Worry lines creased her forehead, and she glanced down at the Stargate, and the many people huddled down in the room around it. There wasn't much left to say that hadn't already been said. It seemed like they were going no where, but if they didn't figure out a way to bring Atlantis under control, people were going to start dying.

"Ma'am;" the voice of the technician beside them brought both leaders out of their thoughts, but it was Weir who asked him what had happened. There was definitely a note of excitement to the tech's voice as he fiddled with the Ancient controls in front of him. "I think I've got something… give me a sec to make this work… okay, there we go," he said, and suddenly Weir and Lorne could hear a very familiar voice.

"Teyla?" she asked, leaning over the desk.

"_Dr. Weir!_" was the surprised reply. "_You are all right!_"

Weir shot Lorne a somewhat amused glance. "More or less."

"_Is Sheppard with you?_" came Ronon's voice, not surprising Weir too much. Her amusement faded, though, and a frown pulled at the corner of her mouth.

"I'm… afraid not," she said, reluctantly. "He's stuck in a flooded, lower level of the City."

"_I believe we may have a way to reverse the damage,_" Teyla provided, sounding somewhat hopeful. That alone caught Weir's attention; the Athosian seemed to sense this, and continued. "_We discovered it was Rodney McKay who was causing all of these disasters—_" The conversation seemed to have attracted several listeners in the room, as Weir heard intense muttering going on behind her at that— even from the other end of the line, where she suspected Ronon was saying a few choice words of his own. Herself, she couldn't keep her head from hanging, deflating somewhat. Continuing; "_We were unable to catch him, but we have his work tablet._"

Someone nearby snapped their fingers, and said, "Of course!" Weir looked over at the scientist, who said, "We couldn't get access to the system… we thought it was a problem with our interfaces. He must have routed all command authority to a single input," he mused, and Weir very nearly laughed at Lorne's baffled expression, though she could sympathize. "If you can get that back to the Control Room," the scientist said, missing the major's look and moving closer to the microphone, "we can fix everything from here."

"I don't think that will work," someone else said, and Weir and the scientist turned to see someone seated at a console behind them. Their eyes were on the Ancient display and they appeared rather worried. "Water's still rising, including on the piers where they are. They'll never get back through fast enough."

The general atmosphere in the Control Room seemed to become that much more heavy; after a moment, Weir turned to the scientist next to her. "Could you walk them through it?" she asked, quietly.

He opened his mouth once, gaped like a fish for a few moments, before closing it and shaking his head. "Code's not single-purposed… he could have done any number of…" The man trailed off as Weir held one hand up.

"_Hey._" Ronon was apparently back on the radio. "_If something were to, say… happen to this thing… wouldn't control go back to you? Like, default or something?_"

Those collected around the microphone paused, sharing their confusion. "Possibly," the scientist said, tilting his head to one side and trying to turn the problem over in his head. "But…"

After a moment, Weir suddenly realized where this was going. "Ronon," she started—

A painfully loud sound of energy weapons' fire came through the radio, making them all jump, before quite a bit of electric crackling. Closing her eyes, Weir placed one hand on her face, groaning softly.

"Did he… did you just _shoot it?_" the scientist demanded in a disbelieving voice. "We might not ever be able to get control back! We might—"

"Hey!" someone interrupted from across the room. "I… I've got access to the system!" Similar jubilant cries were going up around the room, and Weir was quick to step up.

"Get us back up and get the water drained out," she ordered, voice ringing out over the many other. "Then try to fix those malfunctioning filters and the temperature control— everything else is secondary!" Turning to Lorne, she said, "Make sure the medical teams are ready to move out, and send one down to—"

"I know," he cut in, and he even flashed a smile before dashing down the stairs into the Gateroom, taking them two at a time.

Weir sighed, leaning back against the desk and watching the Control Room spring to life once more. They had survived this crisis. _One thing at a time_, she told herself.

The radio crackled one more time behind her, and Weir had to laugh, feeling such a sense of relief that she _could_.

"_By the way, you're welcome._"

"…Thank you Ronon," she said, somewhat impishly, before rolling her eyes.

But the cheerful feeling soon faded, along with the radio's static. _This isn't a solution_, she couldn't help but think. This was a temporary respite at best, a pause to recover. _If we don't catch Rodney…_ She tried to swallow the lump that formed in her throat at that; _and soon..._

Even unsaid, the rest was implicit. Weir looked over the people rushing across the room, with a new sense of purpose to their movements. _Her_ people. They needed her to keep her head above all this… because they weren't out of this boat yet— not by a long shot.


	15. Aftershock

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Friday, 17 August 2007**

A/N: Kinda wanted to stretch this one out some more, but I'd be writing well into tomorrow if I did. :D Break for the weekend; next update Monday!

* * *

**Chapter 14: Aftershock**

* * *

"Here we are… Dr. Weir!" One technician called, smiling to herself. This was, by far, the best thing she'd seen all night— though it was quickly becoming morning, even as their leader made her way over, slightly faster than the tech had seen her move before. She couldn't blame her, honestly. But this time, she had good news to report.

"What have you got?" Weir asked somewhat breathlessly.

Hiding her grin, the female technician placed a sole finger on a wide screen in front of her.

It was the lifesigns detector— currently showing an entire level, devoid of life… all but for two dots where she indicated.

A small smile came over Weir's face, though for a moment, the technician wondered if she didn't see a glint of wetness in the woman's eyes. A moment later, though, when Weir nodded in approval, she decided it must have been a trick of the early light, and turned back to watch the screen, wishing it had some way of telling just how alive those two lives were.

Weir placed one hand gratefully on the tech's shoulder. "Radio the med team down there, guide them to the right place."

"Yes ma'am," the technician replied, with a nod.

It was certainly a weight off of her shoulders to see that— one she hadn't realized was so heavy until it was gone. Miraculously, it seemed to her, everything was being restored, though some things were more difficult than others.

And thus, her mind went straight back to the same issue she had been trying to avoid thinking about… _Rodney…_

Needless to say, the personnel's reactions to hearing that this was Rodney McKay's doing, and he should be detained if caught had been… less than positive. That he was possessed by an alien parasite— some people had known about the Goa'uld, but most had not— even less so. It brought a host of new problems with it.

Protocol dictated that she should implement quarantine, but they still had to recover and transport the ill and wounded. And then there was the issue of the Goa'uld itself— it had already shown a willingness to switch hosts, and seemed bent on causing as much harm to the inhabitants of the City as possible. It was entirely possible that by the time they found McKay, it wouldn't even be in him…

And then what to do about McKay himself. Weir closed her eyes, unable to admit the fear she felt for her friend, aloud or in expression. There was no guarantee that they'd even be able to stop him without harming him. Opening her eyes, she found them unconsciously drawn to the Gateroom below.

Two marines were escorting Beckett towards the infirmary, and she watched them disappear through a side hallway. The doctor seemed more nervous than she'd ever seen him, and with another pang of guilt she recalled his reaction when he awoke to being strapped on a stretcher. He was in misery, she could _see_ that, but she had no idea what she could do for him. First, she supposed, albeit reluctantly, she had to let him be examined in the infirmary. It would clear all lingering doubts about whether he was still Goa'uld controlled or not… _but still… the suspicion he got when he woke up, that kind of thing can cause just as much damage; we might have ruined all faith and trust he had in us…_ She could only pray it wouldn't be irreparable.

Perhaps the worst part was yet to come, though, she thought. Her mouth pulled to one side in a frown, and she let out a close-mouthed sigh. She had put it off long enough— she couldn't afford to wait any longer.

"Dial Earth," Weir announced. "Let's just hope we can keep this conversation under 38 minutes," she murmured.

* * *

"Sir… sir," Kaczynski rasped, nudging Colonel Sheppard with a booted foot.

The water had still been on the rise, but after making it halfway up the stairs, their bodies had simply given out. What had been a stop to rest soon turned into 'just-resting-my-eyes', apparently turned into unconsciousness, in the colonel's case.

"Mm," was the only reply he got. At least it was something.

Kaczynski let out a short breath. "Just checking, sir."

After several seconds, he heard the muffled reply of, "Thanks," from that general direction, and would have laughed if he could have.

Seemed like a shitty way to die. Either cold or exhaustion or drowning, or all three, halfway up a staircase. _A god-damned alien staircase, in some space-ship city in another galaxy_, he amended, before grinning to himself ruefully. _Wonder if I could get that on my gravestone…_ He opened his mouth to ask Sheppard, when he noticed something below him.

There was water pooled on some of the steps. He couldn't quite understand what was so strange about that, but it seemed important. The marine continued to stare at them, feeling like he was going crazy. But then, all things considered, that wouldn't be too much of a stretch.

"C-colonel… look at th'stairs," he muttered.

The form next to him shifted slowly, and he thought he could hear a low moan from Sheppard as he moved, trying to crane his head up. "What about 'em?"

"They're weird," was the only thing he could think to say.

Sheppard gave the marine a blank look, but glanced at the stairs anyways. That's when his blank look became a frown. "They're _wet_."

Kaczynski closed his eyes, nodding. A moment later, a hard shove in his shoulder started him awake— he didn't know what was more surprising, the touch, or that Sheppard had been able to muster enough strength to do it.

"They're wet," Sheppard repeated. "They're _covered_ in water. We're wet, we're _dripping_, but we're not _that_ wet," he muttered. "The water's going down," he said at last, the realization of it hitting him like a sack of bricks.

Kaczynski suddenly scrambled to sit up and get a second look; he got his head about a foot off the ground, before he realized that was as far as it was going. Nonetheless, he could see the black water below him— starting to reflect dim greens and yellows of the sunrise, washing in through a window above— and it seemed obvious now. The water barely lapped up around his boots, when not ten minutes ago it had been well on its way towards his knees. "Thank… _God_," he said, letting his head slump back down. The cold, hard edges of a stairwell had never seemed so comfortable before.

From close by, Sheppard observed the marine and couldn't help but laugh, before doing exactly the same. He could finally let himself pass out, without worrying about waking up underwater.

He wasn't nearly as relaxed about the matter when, some time later, a sudden blinding light flashed in front of one of his eyes. He let out an aggrieved cry; "Ah, _hell!_ Ahh," he groaned, batting feebly at whatever was in front of him.

"He's just fine," he heard from somewhere behind the spotlight, rather amused. The light went out, and dark spots danced across one side of his field of view. He didn't even have time to let it clear, as suddenly the other eye was subjected to the same treatment. Sheppard began blinking, hard, trying to see who was torturing him with the penlight.

"I dunno," came a second voice. "There might be something wrong with him— he's not even complaining."

"Lorne?" Sheppard asked, eyeing a shadowy blob to his right that seemed to resolve itself into a soldier-shape after a few seconds. "What took you so long?" he finally managed to ask. "You missed all the fun."

The major smiled to himself. "I didn't realize it was gonna be a pool party, sir. Had to go get my trunks."

Sheppard let out an amused snort as someone helped push him into a sitting position. "Yeah well, s'for the best I guess. Don't really wanna see you in a swim suit anyhow," he added.

He nearly choked up as he heard the nurse next to him murmur under her breath, "Speak for yourself."

Lorne, thankfully, hadn't caught it; on the other hand, he grew alarmed as the colonel started to have a coughing fit, and took a step forward. "You all right, sir?" he asked, anxious.

"Yeah, yeah, fine," Sheppard replied, eyeing the nurse who was now blushing and trying not to laugh. "All I need now's a blanket and some Tylenol," he assured the major.

"I think we'll let a doctor be the judge of that," the nurse said, gesturing to Lorne. "Help me get him up the stairs," she ordered, suddenly back to business, though she couldn't help but smile at the colonel's antics.

At the top, Sheppard could see Kaczynski being secured to a rolling stretcher— a second empty one was waiting for him. He very nearly protested, before he remembered that he couldn't exactly walk on his own right now… or at all. He sufficed to frown at the thing, eliciting a grin from Major Lorne. As he laid back on it, he glanced over at his 2IC. "So," he said conversationally, "did I miss anything interesting?"

Lorne's expression faltered for a moment, but he quickly recomposed himself. "Ah… Nothing that can't wait," he assured the colonel after a moment; Sheppard held Lorne's gaze for a moment, before nodding in resignation, and laying his head back. The major realized he was probably gonna hear it from the colonel later, but he didn't want to try and explain everything right here…

He sighed, glancing at his watch as the med team started to move off. _Long night,_ he thought, before looking upwards, where sunlight was starting to stream into the corridor. _Turning into a long day._

* * *

Dr. Weir made her way through the hallways, finding herself in the all too familiar locale of the infirmary. It was filled with patients, though most weren't too serious— it looked like the worst was hypothermia and oxygen deprivation, but they were all looking like they were going to be fine. Pausing, three quarters of the way through the room, she saw Lorne standing between the foots of two beds in the back corner, away from the general mess of things.

He seemed to sense her gaze on the back of his neck and turned to face her, smiling half-heartedly after a moment.

She walked over, looking at the occupants of the two beds. "Hypothermia," Lorne filled her in. "What was starting to look like a little frostbite in the extremities, nothing too bad," he mused.

There was a beat before Weir asked, "Did you tell him?"

Another silence ensued; the major sighed. "No. To be honest, ma'am, I'm not looking forward to it, either."

The civilian nodded, face now expressionless. She could empathize with _that_. Weir was still replaying the conversation she had had with the SGC in her head— _but,_ she told herself, _that can wait for now_."One thing at a time," she said quietly. When Lorne looked up at her in puzzlement, she elaborated: "We'll worry about it when he wakes up. Actually…" As she trailed off, Lorne's brow furrowed. Not missing the expression, Weir stated, without emotion, "Would you know if Dr. Beckett's MRI is finished?"

She had to give the major this— he hid his reaction very well, to that she couldn't tell quite what he was thinking. His tone of voice gave little away as well, as he told her simply, "Yes I would, and… no, it isn't." After a moment's hesitation, he jerked his head towards a door on the far wall, and nodding her thanks, Weir moved towards it.

The technician monitoring the scanner didn't notice her come in, thanks to the noise produced by the machine. In fact, he jumped as he caught sight of her moving up next to him— 'Sorry,' she mouthed, holding up her hands apologetically.

The tech— British, from the patch on his shoulder— let out a long breath, steadying himself. "That's all right," he said over the sounds of the scanner, though he seemed far more alert and slightly ill at ease now.

"How are we coming?" Weir asked, raising her voice.

"Few more minutes," the tech assured her. "Would've been done sooner, but we had some problems with the scanner."

Weir looked down at him, her expression concerned. "It's not broken or malfunctioning—"

"Ah," the Brit said, wincing slightly. "No, nothing like that. And, by 'we', I meant, 'Dr. Beckett'," he corrected.

Biting her lip, Weir turned to regard the machine… she couldn't recall Beckett being claustrophobic, but then, an MRI was hell to have, phobias aside. _Or maybe it has something to do with what he just went through_, she added silently. "How was he coping?"

The tech shook his head. "Not well. Had to have—"

He halted suddenly as the machine stopped, and he realized he was yelling.

"Eh, sorry," he said, far quieter, getting up from his chair and moving towards the scanner. He glanced back at Dr. Weir, rubbing at her ears, and grinned. "Ringing?" She nodded. "Yeah, that goes away in a bit. Hang on…" He was fumbling with the opening mechanism when he looked back at her again, decidedly less jovial this time. "As I was saying… Had to have a sedative," he muttered as he opened it up, and her eyes widened in shock.

Beckett was… a sorry sight, to say the least, and Weir was immediately at his side. "Carson," she murmured, taking his hands and helping him to sit up. The man was pale and sweating, despite the apparent sedative, and unusually silent. His eyes looked almost haunted— Weir barely noticed the tech moving around them, back to the computer screen, so focused was she.

"And… you're clear," he announced, cheerfully, though his tone faltered as he regarded the two of them. "Should I step out?" he asked respectfully.

The woman looked back at him, hesitating, before she said, "If you don't mind… just for a few moments," she assured him as he slid past the door. "Carson… speak to me," she said, returning her attention to the man before her.

For a few seconds, he said nothing, before trying to give a rueful smile. "That wasn't pleasant," he quipped, and Weir smiled— though there was worry under it, she was just glad that he wasn't completely withdrawn.

She looked down into his eyes, trying not to show her concern as he broke their eye contact. Letting out a sound of resignation, she looked away too, but seated herself next to him on the scanner bed. She still held gently to one of his hands, trying to comfort him. "Do you want to talk about it?"

_Please, Carson, please open up to me,_ she thought, as the silence stretched on. After a while, she squeezed his hand in hers; a second later, Beckett let out a ragged sigh.

"No, not really," he finally answered. "I just… _Mm_," he moaned, bowing his head slightly and resting it in the palm of his free hand. "This is going to take time," he added, almost as an afterthought.

Weir turned to watch him, but he didn't look at her, and offered nothing further. Reluctantly, she accepted that that was all she was going to get for now. "All right," she said, easing herself forward. "Let's get you out in the infirmary," she suggested, pulling him up gently. "Get you taken care of."

Beckett just shook his head, though he allowed himself to be moved towards the door. "Really, Elizabeth, I'm… I'll be all right."

The look she gave him made it obvious that she didn't believe that; neither did he, it seemed. Weir released his hand, though, and placed hers on his shoulder, pushing him gently through.

"Just… take it easy," she told him; Weir steered him over to an infirmary bed near Sheppard's and the one marine, and he seated himself upon it without protest. All in all, Beckett was acting nothing like himself, and Weir was starting to grow overtly worried.

"Elizabeth," he suddenly said, and she brought her head up, surprised that he was initiating conversation. Beckett then opened his mouth as if to say something, but paused; his eyes shifted form her face to over her shoulder, and Weir turned to see Teyla and Ronon entering the infirmary. When they saw Weir and Beckett together, they began to moves towards them. The woman returned her attention to Beckett, who now seemed uneasy.

"Go on," she urged him.

Silence… then; "Why did you decide to trust me?" he asked in an undertone, not wanting the approaching people to hear. "In the Gateroom, when I was strapped down…" He trailed off, but could see that Weir understood what he meant.

She looked Beckett over, and he saw pity in her eyes. Guilt, perhaps. _Neither_ of which he wanted from anyone right now. Trying to make light of the situation, or maybe cheer him up, she joked, "Well, if you had been possessed, they wouldn't have held you anyways."

It wasn't any kind of decent answer, but Beckett had no time to ask again, as Ronon and Teyla walked up together. Apparently Lorne caught sight of the gathering; he was talking with Kaczynski, two beds over, but after a few more words, he moved up behind the assembled group. Beckett suddenly felt as if he were on display, finding himself resenting the attention.

The ensuing conversation didn't go well. He could hear their concerned voices and quiet reassurances, but he wasn't honestly listening. None of it mattered, did it? They couldn't undo what had happened, and it wasn't as if mere words were going to make him feel better or forget.

He saw Weir watching him closely, and tried to force a smile, just to avoid her scrutiny.

"Must have been hard," Ronon was saying.

Weir held Beckett's eyes for several seconds, and he grew uneasy, glancing away. "Eh, yes," he said, somewhat distractedly. "Yes…" he repeated, staring off into space.

Ronon put one hand on his shoulder, and Beckett subsequently tensed up. The Satedan frowned, but didn't move. "We're here, if you need us," he said simply.

"You are strong," Teyla assured him as well; "You will overcome this." Though in his mind, he could still imagine the parasite, hissing how _weak_ he was… He closed his eyes, trying to will the memory away. Instead, it lingered, curling around him, persistent. The hair on the back of his neck seemed to stand on end.

"Dr. Beckett."

He started, opening his eyes; Beckett turned to see Lorne standing off to one side, looking rather uncomfortable.

"Aye?" the Scot asked, somewhat wearily. Part of him realized he was being harsh with Lorne, with them all. He knew he should be thankful— thankful that his friends and colleagues were with him, that they finally trusted him again, that he was free of the Goa'uld… but instead, he simply wanted to be left alone. He couldn't help but flinch every time someone placed their hand on his shoulder or arm, and he pulled away when they drew too close. After such an… _intimate_… connection with another mind, a connection that had been thoroughly abused and ransacked, the last thing Beckett wanted was contact. He felt… _exposed_. Like he had with the parasite. Weakened. And not least of all, shamed.

Lorne, like the others, didn't seem to notice. "I'm… sorry for the way I acted," he said at long last. He opened his mouth to continue, but there were no more words, and instead he glanced down at his feet, expressionless.

Beckett made a small noise of dry, mirthless amusement. "Why?" he asked, puzzling Lorne and those surrounding him with his seriousness. "You had every right to act like you did. You _should_ have," he added, bitterly.

Now the major was frowning, his brow furrowed. "_No_…" he said, slowly, drawing it out as though confused and trying to understand the doctor's behavior. "I shouldn't." Then tilting his head slightly; "Beckett, are you all—"

"I'm fine," Beckett said evenly, if somewhat unconvincingly, raising one hand to forestall the question, both from the major and the others. "I'm just a bit worn, though," he lied.

"Hey, that makes two of us."

Everyone started at the new voice to join the conversation— turning, they saw John Sheppard, sitting up in the next bed over. He offered a small grin for their looks of surprise to see him up, much less conscious. Noticing that almost everyone was regarding him over their shoulders, though, Sheppard looked behind them; his eyes found the doctor sitting on the edge of the next bed over. He quickly put two and two together.

"Beckett?" he asked, seeming surprised to see the man being _treated_ in the infirmary, instead of controlling it like a new-age Napoleon. "You look like crap," he remarked after a moment. An instant later, Teyla had hit him hard on the side of the leg, giving him a meaningful glare. "_Ow!_" Sheppard rubbed at the sore spot on his thigh. "What was _that_ for??" he demanded.

He looked first at Teyla, who suddenly discovered something very interesting on the floor, then to the others assembled, the look of confusion on his face only deepening as no one offered any answer. Beckett turned completely away, and Sheppard's eyebrows knit together.

"…All right," he said at last, drawling the words out. "Am I _missing_ something here?"


	16. Open and Shut

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Monday, 20 August 2007**

A/N: Hey, guess what I recently realized. Lorne's not a marine. \ face-in-hand-moment \

That's seriously gonna bug me, and I don't like to retcon. So, no new chapter tomorrow so I can do a quick-and-dirty rewrite, fix that and other small mistakes I've made along the way. I'll pick back up with new material on Wednesday.

* * *

**Chapter 15: Open and Shut**

* * *

"I'm afraid so, John."

Sheppard cast a glance at Elizabeth— something was _definitely_ not right here. There was yet another pause as the woman searched for words. In the mean time, Sheppard found himself turning to glare at his second in command.

"_Lorne…_" The barely-concealed irritation in his voice had the major trying to conceal a wince. "'Nothing that can't _wait_'?"

The major shifted uneasily. "There was no good way to tell you, sir…" He at least had the good sense to look embarrassed; though, he suspected the only reason the colonel wasn't going for his throat was that he wanted an answer first.

Luckily, Weir stepped up to defend him. "We intended to tell you _after_ you had rested." Sheppard had a bad habit of not doing just that— _That man would say he's fine even if he had a gaping chest wound,_ she decided.

Realizing she had a point, Sheppard normally would have let it go there. But why was it Elizabeth telling him this? It was usually Beckett fussing over them like a mother hen. He tried to catch the man's eyes again, but Beckett refused to meet his gaze.

"All right…" Sheppard could accept the explanation for not telling him earlier, if he had to; now he wanted to know _what_ they hadn't told him. "Now that I'm rested, do you think you could fill me in?"

It was Lorne who stepped up to the plate this time, surprising the colonel. "Someone has been sabotaging the City," he said plainly.

Sheppard could feel his heart rate skyrocket just at those words. "What?" he asked a bit breathlessly, unconsciously leaning forward. The next question was more a demand than request; the Air Force officer was already bristling. "_Who?_"

"A Goa'uld."

And just as quickly as he had gotten hot under the collar, Sheppard felt the blood in his veins turn to ice. He spun to face Weir, hardly believing the words had come from her mouth, his own slightly open in shock.

Unbidden, memories of Colonel Caldwell resurfaced— and if he'd had anything to eat lately, Sheppard suspected that would have followed.

Now gripping the edge of the infirmary bed so hard his knuckles were turning a ghostly shade of white, the soldier fixed his companions with such a piercing, scandalized stare that Weir felt slightly guilty for not letting him know sooner. "You're _sure?_" Sheppard's voice belied how shaken he was, regardless of expression.

Weir nodded once; Sheppard noticed her eyes flick down and to one side before she hastily looked back up at him. Too late though— the colonel had followed her glance back to Beckett, and realization was dawning in his face.

"Oh _shit_," he intoned softly. "It's not—"

"No." Beckett made a preemptive reply, wanting to cut off that line of conversation before it started. "It's not in me anymore."

His snappish response not only silenced the group around him, but caught the attention of a few staff and patients close enough to hear also. "…That wasn't what I was going to ask, Carson." Sheppard offered a weak smile. "But good to know."

Beckett didn't miss the use of his first name; the simple sentiment spoke volumes in and of itself. _Quit being daft, you idiot_. Sheppard was supposed to ask about the parasite— he was the military commander on Atlantis after all, he needed to know. He wasn't trying to pry in… The doctor suppressed a shudder. Even so, he resented that soft tone, that gentleness that everyone was suddenly using around him, as though he would break if pushed too hard. _And perhaps I would_, he thought; he didn't want to talk of it, need-to-know or not! But the Scot certainly did not want their pity either, he… he did not deserve it anyhow.

And still, Sheppard's gaze had not left him. "Do we know who it _is_ in?" he asked at length, directing the question instead to Weir and Lorne.

Beckett wished he had enough sincerity left to feel grateful that the colonel did not ask any more of him. As it was, he felt simply… _tired_.

His weariness went unnoticed, as an electric tension filled the room. Sheppard could feel his stomach flip again as they hesitated— at long last, Teyla set one hand gently upon his arm, and he wondered what she was trying to steady him against. "John… there is no easy way to say this," she warned.

"_Tell me_."

"Rodney."

Ronon's words didn't really come entirely as a shock to Colonel Sheppard, which was itself somewhat of a surprise for him. He wondered if he hadn't realized it all along, from the moment they had told them there was a Goa'uld at loose, and McKay hadn't been there to spout his usual doom and gloom.

The soldier's eyes slowly closed, pain traced in the lines around their corners. John Sheppard didn't have many vulnerable moments; this was little exception. Within moments the hazel eyes opened, alert as ever, if slightly more remorseful.

"Okay," he said, trying to get himself started again. "Tell me what's been happening."

Teyla and Ronon filled him in on the strange happenings he had missed, including their hunt for McKay; there was both shame and bitterness to Teyla's admission that she had been unable to prevent him from getting back into the City. Weir mentioned Zelenka— Sheppard had to let out a hiss at that. _There goes our best shot at getting any of this fixed_. And of course, Beckett said nothing.

"We've got security teams patrolling with stunners and non-essential personnel in quarters, now that they're safe again" Lorne was saying.

That at least was a relief, small one though it was. "If these malfunctions are any indication, that snake's got full access to everything McKay knows," the colonel pointed out. "What's to say he doesn't do it again?"

Lorne made a noise of agreement. "I know. Had to pick the genius, right?" He sighed; both men missed Beckett shifting uncomfortably, though Weir picked up on it. She wanted to turn, to ask, but… It wouldn't do any good, she reflected. Lorne continued on blithely. "The computer experts tell me they're trying to lock down the system, or something, but…" He waved one hand in the air vaguely. Sheppard got his meaning.

"Right now," Weir cut in, "I think our priority should be finding Rodney. That would stop any new damage, and then we could start looking at options to get the Goa'uld out of him."

Ronon frowned. "What if we can't get it out?"

As was becoming all too common, they fell silent. Weir managed to work up a response, her voice cracking the tiniest bit. "We'll worry about that after we've found him."

"What about the Daedalus?" Teyla asked, almost reluctantly, as if afraid to hear the answer. "Could it not be used again…?"

It was difficult to forget Atlantis' brush with a Goa'uld the year before— but then, they'd had Colonel Caldwell pinned before they'd even realized there was a parasite within the man, and the ship in question had been in orbit— it had been, in comparison to their situation now, simple. They had been able to beam the Goa'uld out of the colonel's head. They didn't have that same luxury now.

"The Daedalus is currently half way between Pegasus and Earth," Weir replied. "But it's definitely something to keep in mind," she added, and the Athosian smiled gratefully.

"Speaking of Earth," Sheppard broke in, "what does the SGC have to say about this?"

Their civilian leader pressed her lips into a thin line. Now was the time to share, with everyone who needed to know present. That didn't make the answer any more gratifying. "About as well as might be expected." She sighed, rubbing at her face with one hand. "We're completely cut off, until we can contain it. Then they'll send a team through to confirm. Nothing beyond that."

Well that was _great_. "Right," the colonel repeated "If we don't produce results soon, they'll probably send a strike team in. Is there anything you can tell us, Doc," he asked, suddenly looking to Beckett again; "Something that might give us an idea of where to start?"

The Scot shook his head reflexively, not even bothering to think it over. That was a part of his mind he didn't want to return to. After a moment, though, he let out a groan, putting one hand to his head. Weir and the others reacted, worried, and he waved them off irritably. "It's not me… It's…" He sighed. "Back on Earth, before I left— I can't remember his first name, but there's a Colonel Mitchell they'll probably be looking for, in one of their science labs."

Setting one reassuring hand upon his, Weir nodded. "I'll make sure they know."

"If that's it…" Sheppard cast an inquiring glance towards Beckett and Weir beside him— she nodded again, though this time almost imperceptibly, and he let it drop. "Guess we should get back to it then."

The assembled group stirred and voiced their assent— Sheppard slid off of his bed and Ronon stepped forward from where he was leaning against it. Weir watched them all begin to move off, and stiffened as Beckett got off of the bed he had been seated on.

"_Not_. You." Weir caught Beckett by the arm as he tried to walk by.

"Elizabeth—"

She shot him a warning glance. "Carson, you have a concussion."

He frowned; she shouldn't try to diagnose him, he thought. "A small one. There are people with worse," he added brusquely, turning away.

But the grip on his arm was not relinquished. Growing frustrated, he spun to face her again, and was in fact slightly surprised to see the worry lining her face. "You've also suffered psychological trauma."

For a moment, Beckett was silent, but then tried to pull his arm away once more, seeming to grow more anxious. "I'm _fine_," he snapped at her.

"You're _not!_" Despite his current attitude, the sharpness of her reply caught Beckett off guard. "Look at how you're acting! And you think that you're _fine?_" Again he was silenced, by her uncharacteristic outburst. After a moment, the Scot opened his mouth to try and formulate a reply, but she cut him off. "I don't know _what_ that thing did to you, but it obviously left more than just that wound on the back of your neck!" Weir's voice rose, quavering— he could see, for one vulnerable moment, that she was scared and disturbed, much as he would have been in her situation.

But she _couldn't_ understand— it was a living nightmare that was still playing over in his head. The pain that only he had felt. The knowledge it had stolen from him.

And then there was the guilt and weakness it had left in its place.

Now strangely quiet, he gently grasped her wrist and pulled her hand away from him. "I… am fine," he said slowly.

Weir closed her eyes, bringing one hand to her temple, leaning her head into her hand. "Carson."

"Elizabeth." He turned away, though this time back into the infirmary, grabbing at some paperwork to busy himself with.

"Please talk to Heightmeyer," she pleaded.

After a moment's pause, in which he didn't look at her— "I don't think that would help."

Her eyes flashed and her voice seemed hurt as she cried, "Then talk to me! Or _anyone!_ If not for you," Weir continued, "then for Rodney." She didn't notice the doctor stiffen up at the mention of the Canadian scientist… of his best friend. "We know next to nothing about this… _parasite_… And we have no idea how to face it." The normally indomitable woman deflated. "_Please_."

Beckett's face remained emotionless, as he replied, "I'm sorry." With that he disappeared into a back room, leaving Weir to stand helpless.


	17. Second Strike

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Wednesday, 22 August 2007**

A/N: So, everything's fixed, and y'know? Lorne _should_ be a marine. It would make more sense. \gripes\ Anyhow, sorry this is up a smidgen late, I was at a picnic all day.

* * *

**Chapter 16: Second Strike**

* * *

_Weir's eyes flashed and her voice seemed hurt as she cried, "Then talk to me! Or anyone! If not for you," Weir continued, "then for Rodney. We know next to nothing about this… parasite… And we have no idea how to face it." The normally indomitable woman deflated. "Please."_

_Beckett's face remained emotionless, as he replied, "I'm sorry." With that he disappeared into a back room, leaving Weir to stand helpless. _

* * *

To the good doctor's credit, he had stayed in the infirmary; it annoyed him how his medical staff skirted around him, overly cautious, but it was better than out in the City, he told himself.

Then there was the prospect of sleep. Beckett had, technically, been awake all the night, and yet he didn't feel tired.

Besides, sleep would bring with it a whole new phalanx of visions and nightmares.

No, despite what Elizabeth said and what everyone else _thought_, he was exactly where he should be.

"You're good to go," he told the last patient. The man had a few superficial burns to his hands— a brush with a panel that bordered a super-heated room.

And like that, the last of Carson's task was done, the only thing that he had to keep him busy and keep his mind off of slimy, creeping, parasitical snakes, leaping at you from—

Doubled forward, Beckett seized the edge of a desk, using it to keep himself upright.

"Dr. Beckett?"

He turned to see a nurse watching him, worry lines creasing her forehead.

"I'm all right, Marjorie." He forced himself to straighten, ignoring the clench of his stomach that threatened to mutiny against his calm exterior.

She knew better, though. "Maybe you should turn in for the night." She blithely ignored the rays of early sun, casting shallow but beautiful light around the room.

Most of the infirmary personnel had been recalled to their quarters, with one team stationed in the control room, pending any _further_ disasters. Beckett was determined not to be one of the former, however.

"No," he insisted. "Someone needs to stay on call here."

Marjorie placed her hands on her hips, and the doctor recognized the same pose she used on their most difficult patients. "That someone doesn't have to be you."

"Marj…" What was he supposed to say? How did you write something like this off? In the end, he supposed he couldn't. "I need this," he said, quietly.

She hesitated, and Beckett knew he had won. Despite what Rodney seemed to think, the Hippocratic Oath wasn't an unfortunate requirement of his occupation; for some, the act of helping and healing was a way of life, to the point that it had become a necessity. Maybe the denizens of Atlantis tried to avoid the infirmary like the plague, but for the Scot, it was a sanctuary. He simply hadn't realized how much so until now.

"All right," she finally ceded. "I'll go police up the front rooms." With a tiny smile, she headed off to do that.

He headed back to his desk, where there were some remnants of paperwork to be dealt with. In the quiet, with nothing more than the shuffle of paper and the hum of Atlantis— so easily drowned out in the usual hustle and bustle— he found himself enjoying a modicum of peace.

In seconds, it shattered— two loud reports, like gunfire sounded off, terrifyingly close, and Beckett heard a scream.

"Marjorie!" Frantic, Beckett dashed out of his office, towards the front rooms, only to be met half way by the panicked nurse.

"Thank God you're all right!"

"I'm fine, love, are you—"

"Just frightened," Marjorie assured him; Carson couldn't blame her, he was too. After everything else the last twelve hours or so had brought down on him, the Scot was surprised he could even keep his feet, much less his head.

Instead, he grabbed her gently, turning her around— "Call security; get somewhere safe!" he called after her retreating back.

_Safe_ was where he should have been heading, but the sound of crunching glass drew his attention back to a particular room… All of a sudden it clicked, and the doctor was rushing back to the side office that contained the MRI scanner, praying he wasn't right.

He had to draw himself up short as he came to the doorway— peace wasn't the only thing shattered. Glass and metal, probably from the machine's inner workings, were scattered across the floor. Worse, liquid helium was starting its slow crawl through the debris, leaking from within the scanner.

This was bad. Such damage was irreparable, and without MRI capability—

Like someone had taken a firebrand and ripped it across his ribs, pain erupted across Beckett's side.

He staggered, and someone shoved him the rest of the way before he even had time to hiss in pain.

A yell escaped his throat, before his breath caught at sight of the man before him.

"Hello, Carson."

McKay stood there, calm as ever, a wide shard of glass gripped in one hand. Beckett could feel the blood starting to seep through the side of his uniform— not deep at all, but painful, seeming to become more so with every labored breath that pushed out from his chest.

Shaking his head disparagingly; "Yes, Carson, just sit there and stare at me wordlessly. Or maybe you can use whatever voodoo it is you do to heal people, and stop me." McKay twirled the long piece of glass between two fingers, and Beckett watched it, mesmerized. Already it was stained— and dripping— red.

Noting where the doctor's attention was, McKay halted its movements. He paused, before running his thumb up one side of it.

Then his grin returned, and he took a step forward, eyes ablaze.

Beckett's chest heaved, each new breath bringing ripples of pain from the slash across his side. Through gritted teeth, but with fear in his expression; "You plan on killing me."

The other man just shook his head, eyes never leaving Beckett. "Why would I do that?" he asked, voice low and doubled. Then, with his voice returning to normal and affecting an incredulous, hurt tone, he said, "Carson, we're _friends_. I enjoy spending time with you," he added, a smirk filling his face. "Don't tell me you don't feel the same."

"Bastard," Beckett hissed, fear and hate and loathing boiling inside of him and unable to think of anything else to say. He wanted to do something, to make a move against the other, but— it was, in a way, still Rodney, and… deep within, he felt a helplessness, a part of him that told himself he couldn't beat it, that said, 'what's the point?' It was this part that truly kept him rooted to the floor.

"Ooh," McKay said, pretending to flinch a bit. "You don't mean that." He started to move forward, reminding Beckett of a cat, prowling after a small bird or mouse. "Do you, buddy?"

Many things happened at once in the next moments. A large, dreadlocked-figure burst around the corner and saw McKay lunging for the doctor. Beckett snapped out of his fright-induced paralysis, and jerked backwards, grabbing for something from the nearby table. McKay's hands locked around Beckett's closer hand and throat.

And then Beckett snapped his free hand forward, a scalpel gripped tightly in it. Ronon was bringing his gun to bear as the sharp instrument sank into McKay's forearm. Yelling out, he released Beckett's throat, recoiling slightly, and Ronon took the shot.

It staggered the scientist, but didn't drop him. Instead, he stumbled away, face contorted in a grimace. He glared at the Satedan, eyes blazing, before taking off in another direction. Ronon followed after— Beckett had only a few seconds to register his passing before Teyla was there, kneeling next to him, one hand on his shoulder in concern.

"Doctor Beckett— are you all right?"

He looked up into her dark eyes, and hesitated. She tilted her head at him when he did not answer after several seconds. The Athosian woman was about to ask again when Beckett held up one hand, inhaling deeply. "I know it's early, but… do you think you could find Dr. Heightmeyer and bring her here?" he asked, trying to will some nonchalance into his voice— something to keep her from suspecting any more from his request. But as Teyla held his gaze for several seconds more, he swallowed, realizing that it hadn't worked.

Still, she smiled, nodding, and Beckett couldn't help but exhale loudly. _Thank you, dear,_ he said silently, wishing he could express his gratitude aloud. It was going to be hard enough trying to talk about it once…

* * *

A smattering of footsteps echoed from ahead. Ronon paused to listen, but they died as quickly as they started, and he chased in that direction. After rounding a few corners, he found nothing, and traced back along his own route, searching for some evidence of passage— silently cursing the clean aesthetic of Atlantis that left little to be disturbed.

It was coming into a main hallway that Ronon registered a dark blur directly in front of him a split second before jerking his head to the side, narrowly avoiding a blow to the face. His attacker's momentum had the person plow right into him, though, bowling the both of them over. Ronon managed to see a flash of the angry scientist's face right before he went down, his gun clattering uselessly to the floor.

Realizing he wasn't going to keep his feet, the Satedan rolled with it, bringing one leg up between the two of them, and using it to kick McKay over his head. He heard the other man grunt as he regained his feet. He had time enough to retrieve his weapon and bring it to bear on McKay— to realize the scientist was holding an M9.

He dodged back around the corner McKay had come from as a report sounded from the gun, deafening in such close quarters. When he shied back around the edge, he saw McKay taking similar cover.

Carefully, he raised a finger to his earpiece. "Sheppard, I got him," he said, before going on to relay his location.

"_Copy that. Hold tight until backup gets there,_" was the response he got.

The warrior scowled to himself. "I can take him." Gingerly, he ducked around the corner— he appeared to have McKay pinned.

"_What? No, Ronon, I'm serious, don't get close to him—_"

"Don't worry, Sheppard, I'll be careful," he shot back, before turning down the volume on his radio. He didn't need it distracting him.

Or giving him away.

Ronon slid back into the hall, walking lightly much like a cat, weapon preceding him. He could hear the pained rasping of the other, and couldn't help a smug grin. "Doesn't feel good, does it?" he asked, pacing slowly forward. He didn't want to blow this chance. "Guess you're not used to being beaten so easily."

The voice that replied made Ronon pause— it was, distantly, McKay's… but far too low, and with a weird duplicity that he didn't understand. "Don't think I'm beaten. In an hour, I'll have completely healed from the few injuries you've managed to give me. Can you say the same for yourself?" The figure tried to duck back our, squeezing off another shot— it went high, though, and McKay was forced to return to his concealment as Ronon's stunner went off with a high whine— the burst narrowly missing him and splashing across the wall a few feet away.

"What makes you think you have an hour?" Ronon replied, moving closer to the wall on his side. He didn't want to risk being directly in McKay's line of sight if he attempted to pull the same stunt twice. "I hear you make people stronger," he continued. "But look at what you've got to work with and tell me you think you'd win a fight against me."

A sarcastic laugh— so like McKay that Ronon had to remind himself that this… _whatever_ it was… was able to perfectly imitate the person it possessed. "I don't know what amuses me more: your posturing…" _If you think I'm posturing,_ Ronon couldn't help but think, _why are you still hiding?_ The warped voice continued though. "…Or how easily my host takes offense."

The words took a moment to click with Ronon, and he hesitated as they did— _McKay's still in there—_ but it seemed the parasite within the scientist had expected such a reaction.

It leapt out from its hiding place, taking advantage of Ronon's recalcitrance to fire off two shots in quick succession. He wasn't sure which it was, but in an instant, there was a flash of pain in his left arm, a burning sensation that seemed to spread with the blood running down it. Gritting his teeth, Ronon returned fire, this time catching McKay with the stunning blast.

It seemed to have much more of an effect this time. Just as Ronon thought the scientist was going to drop, he saw him raise the Beretta one last time, above Ronon's head. Then he squeezed the trigger; the light fixture overhead exploded, raining down glass on the both of them.

The hair on the back of Ronon's neck stood on end as they sank into total darkness.


	18. Deadlock

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Thursday, 23 August 2007**

* * *

**Chapter 17: Deadlock**

* * *

"_I can take him."_

"_What? No, Ronon, I'm serious, don't get close to him—"_

"_Don't worry, Sheppard, I'll be careful," he shot back, before turning down the volume on his radio. He didn't need it distracting him._

* * *

_Just as Ronon thought the scientist was going to drop, he saw him raise the Beretta one last time, above Ronon's head. Then he squeezed the trigger; the light fixture overhead exploded, raining down glass on the both of them._

_The hair on the back of Ronon's neck stood on end as they sank into total darkness._

* * *

"Ronon? Ronon! God _damn it!_"

What the hell was wrong with him? Ronon knew damn well what a Goa'uld was capable of, and if they lost _him_ to it… Sheppard clenched his teeth, letting a sigh escape through them. It came out more as a hiss, which about summed up how he felt.

The action in the control room seemed to slow for a moment, and the colonel shot the closest technicians an unreadable look. Hastily, they returned to their own work, and he closed his eyes, lost in thought again.

There was already a security team on its way to assist the Satedan; he knew his teammate, though. Sheppard leaned onto the edge of a nearby console, turning the situation over in his mind.

They probably wouldn't find Ronon and McKay, not soon enough. Sheppard, on the other hand…

The soldier grimaced, knowing Elizabeth would have his head for joining the security teams after what he'd gone through a few hours ago— it wasn't like he could sit around doing nothing, though, so he'd tried to help coordinate from here.

_One more plan, out the window._ Oh well, it was better to ask forgiveness than permission anyhow.

Besides, Sheppard had sat on the sidelines long enough while his friends and teammates went after Rodney.

* * *

Darkness. One would think he'd be used to it, blind as he was in his natural form. It angered him now— walls seemed to rush up from nowhere and there was no sign of the one that had been pursuing him. _Ronon_.

McKay lurched to one side, limbs seizing up. That stunner! It was interfering with his ability to control the host body; he had hardly enough concentration to even care about the host mind. _Concentrate!_

The panel in front of him seemed to swim across his vision. Frustrated, he pulled it off, hesitating before pulling a couple of crystal-like components from within, cursing as they clattered to the floor. That would buy him… who knew how long. The physicist continued his haphazard way down the hall, wondering how long it would take that ape of a man to circumvent that door—or beat it down.

McKay clenched his eyes shut, before forcing them open. The shadowy areas seemed to waver… it wasn't just dark, the stupid weapon Ronon had used on him threatened to make him pass out.

For the moment, he held himself up against one wall. Within, the other was railing against him, trying to throw him off. It seemed to think that he was weak enough now that it could actually accomplish something with its pathetic efforts. Irritably, he gave it a mental shove, but seconds later, it had resumed its assault.

And with _that_ came the nonstop talking. Its endless tirade echoed in his head; he had to wonder if that was what was causing his headache, as opposed to the stunning blast he had received minutes ago.

_Shut up,_ he growled inwardly. A small sound of effort came with it, and he paused, putting one hand out to steady him. That sound could have been more than enough to give him away. He focused, trying to listen for the sound of his pursuer whom he had barely lost a few scant minutes ago— the buzz within his mind from the original made it impossible to focus, though, and he was reminded of small, annoying insects. It was pushing him, he knew; it couldn't retake control, but it was doing its damndest to ensure that he didn't escape.

Of course, he'd shot out the lights back there, sure, and that had given him cover enough to get away from that one spot— and then there was the door he disabled— but that wasn't going to guarantee him anything. There was hope that Ronon's injury would buy him enough time to recover… If he could just hold on, give it time, he _could_ recover… then again, this was _Ronon_.

The hand that had been splayed across the wall in a valiant but somewhat futile battle to hold him up curled into a fist. He hadn't sought that knowledge about Ronon in Rodney's mind. _That wasn't my doing_. Despite the fact that he was alone, McKay's features twisted into something infuriated— his thoughts were getting too close to that of the host's. It was starting to influence him!

It started to crow in triumph inside his head, and he summoned up as much strength as he could muster— far more than he needed, but he wanted the other to suffer for such insolence— and battened it down again.

_Instant gratification_. He wanted to smirk, to leer over the other and wave its own words in front of it tauntingly, but instead, the vestiges of pain seemed to haunt his body, carried over from his reprisal against the host.

A ragged gasp surfaced from him, and he stumbled towards the wall again. _Shit. Shit!_ He didn't even pause to consider that those were more words borrowed from his host.

Forward, he had to move forward. Get away from this spot, now that he'd drawn enough attention to it to bring the whole City down on him! A blatant exaggeration, but what did it matter; he reached an intersection of two halls, and leaning out to check the left side.

Something hard came to rest up under his right shoulder blade.

"McKay."

"_Shit!_" The stunner was snapped up to aim at McKay's torso as he spun frantically. "Sheppard? Oh thank God…" McKay let out a massive sigh, shaking slightly, and moving as if to take a step towards the colonel.

Sheppard took closer aim and his finger drifted over the triggering mechanism; the scientist faltered after a moment, eyes going wide.

"What the hell are you _doing?_"

It was so perfectly _Rodney_… but was it really him, or just the perfect act, that was the question. Sheppard hadn't had time to observe McKay, just coming on to him with barely enough time to get his weapon up. And now he had to decide between trust and caution, as McKay tried to move yet again.

The stunner was very suddenly pointing at McKay's head. "Don't come any closer," Sheppard warned, letting the implicit threat hang. _Better to ask forgiveness…_

McKay froze, eyeing the weapon being pointed at him, before looking at Sheppard incredulously, as though he couldn't believe what he was hearing. That his own teammate, his _friend_, would calmly stand there and shoot him. After several seconds, the disbelief faded from his face, as he realized Sheppard _would_ do just that.

"Uh… right… Here. I'll just stay… here then." McKay swallowed hard. "I mean, here is good, I don't have a problem with here."

The look of betrayal in the man's expression was difficult for the colonel to stomach. The front of the stunner started to dip about an inch as McKay rambled on. Sheppard had to bite his tongue to keep from saying something, afraid that he'd talk himself into believing this was his friend.

And he _wanted_ to believe it was McKay. He eyed the man, who trailed off, noticing his scrutiny. He was leaning into the wall now, breathing hard. Blood was trickling down one of his sleeves; McKay put a hand over the wound self consciously when he saw where Sheppard was looking.

He also had a 9 mil holstered to his thigh, though, the soldier noted grimly.

"Y'know… s'much as I'm… enjoying…" McKay said, drawing his attention back and still managing to sound sarcastically smarmy in spite of everything, "—our time together," he continued, forcing a small but frightened smile, "you might want to know that the Goa'uld's in Ronon. So could we please… not just _stand here?_" he asked, voice rising with a new level of tension.

Sheppard gave no indication that he had heard, holding his position and weapon, uncharacteristically emotionless.

"Or not," McKay mumbled. His eyes flicked over Sheppard, before his eyebrows knitted together with uncertainty. "Why do you keep _staring_ at me like that? …You're not…"

Sheppard had to fight the urge to roll his eyes, though he finally gave a rueful grin. "_Yes_, Rodney. That's _exactly it_. And this whole thing was just an elaborate setup so I could have you to myself."

"Yeah you wish," the scientist muttered, looking more disturbed than anything now. "To be frank I always suspected… Wait…" Something seemed to dawn on him. "How do I know it's not in _you_? …Oh God." McKay backed himself further into the wall, panic taking hold of him again.

"Well that's easy," Sheppard said, keeping his voice even. McKay looked up at him, almost hopefully. "It's not in me," he stated simply.

"_What?_ That's it??" McKay demanded, seeming to forget that he was being held at gunpoint for a moment. "'It's not in you'? Oh, well, _that_ makes me feel so much safer already. And how do know I can trust you?"

A frown came to Sheppard's face. "I suppose you can't. But it doesn't really matter."

Sheppard's expression was suddenly mirrored on McKay's face, though with less control and more fear to it. "What? What do you mean it doesn't matter, of course it matters. Why wouldn't it matter?"

"Because I don't trust _you_." He brought the stunner to bear again. "Sorry, Rodney."

In the flash of blue light, Sheppard caught McKay ducking for his weapon, and realized he'd been had. With a speed that belied his seeming pain and weakness, McKay avoided the blast, but slipped— even so, he took a potshot at Sheppard. The colonel dove towards the floor, catching himself on his hands before scrambling to one knee, stunner preceding him and aimed at the other man.

But just as quickly McKay matched him— M9 raised and pointed directly at Sheppard's head. Though he was sitting with his legs splayed out and supporting himself with his opposite hand, the gun didn't tremble at all in his grasp; it took all Sheppard had to do the same. For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then the scientist cracked a grin. "Well well, Colonel. Looks like we've reached a bit of a stalemate, hm?"


	19. Friction

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Friday, 24 August 2007**

A/N: This one's got some fairly adult language— actually considerably toned down than it was, but still enough that it might make some people uncomfortable. I'm just giving you fair warning, and, if language is a concern for you, PM me— I'll email you a safe version. That aside, enjoy. :)

* * *

**Chapter 18: Friction**

* * *

_The colonel dove towards the floor, catching himself on his hands before scrambling to one knee, stunner preceding him and aimed at the other man._

_But just as quickly McKay matched him— M9 raised and pointed directly at Sheppard's head. For a long moment, neither spoke._

_Then the scientist cracked a grin. "Well well, Colonel. Looks like we've reached a bit of a stalemate, hm?"_

* * *

"Should have shot you the second I _saw_ you." _Should have waited for Ronon, should have radioed out when I still could. _Too many should-haves. Now he was gun-to-gun with his possessed friend and couldn't even risk moving his hand up to his earpiece, not unless he wanted a bullet in his head. Everything about this was just so horribly wrong.

So Sheppard was angry. No, make that, Sheppard was _livid_. And yet, it was carefully contained, McKay noted— somehow it made him that much more wary. He knew this human could be dangerous, and razor sharp— and he was sharpening even as the seconds ticked away into silence.

But McKay wasn't going to show concern, not in front of this pathetic creature. "You should have, shouldn't you? What made you stop, Sheppard?"

A full-fledged grin split his face as the colonel suddenly appeared pained. Sheppard, gritting his teeth, shifted where he was. This thing was just trying to get at him, make him slip up. The only problem was, it was working. It had started working before it had even revealed itself.

God, this was _McKay!_ Even possessed by an evil, alien, _head-snake_, this was someone who had always been under his protection, and though Sheppard would never admit it to his face, someone who he cared about.

"Come on, Sheppard. It's simple, isn't it?"

"_Shut up_."

McKay tilted his head to one side, smug satisfaction across his face— at once, Sheppard wanted desperately to break his nose and back as far away as possible. "You shoot your friend, you get me. You might even be able to drop me before I shoot _you_."

The colonel's upper lip twisted into a snarl. "Let me tell you, I'm tempted."

"That's at least two stunner blasts I've had recently— let _me_ tell _you_, it's a _bitch_," McKay continued, eyes darkly amused. "Maybe you'll be relieved to hear that it's giving me a rough time. Actually, I don't really _know_ what will happen between our two nervous systems if I get hit with another— for all I know the additional disruption could kill _both_ of us." For a moment the rapid-fire, barely controlled voice returned, a hint of panic on the edge of his features. But just as quickly they resolved themselves; he watched Sheppard unravel a little more. "_But_— I'd be dead," he said slowly, words dripping sarcasm. He rolled his eyes. "The military mode of thinking triumphs again."

Sheppard very nearly told him to shut up again, whole lot of good it would do— hell, there wasn't _anything _he could say that would do any good.

_Damn it… __**damn it!**_ It was McKay and his same old argument thrown into Sheppard's face and _fuck_ but he _didn't know what to do!_ For all he hated it, that thing could have a point— and Sheppard didn't know if what it said was even plausible or not… It wasn't like he had McKay in his ear, telling him what was what. He never thought he'd miss the scientist's never ending whining, domineering, complaining, but… _**Damn!!**_

McKay continued to watch calmly, backing off only momentarily because he didn't actually want Sheppard to shoot him— unthinkable as it was, he _didn't_ know what would happen… If he'd be able to avoid, or even survive such a blast. Worryingly enough, though, it seemed the colonel might not need his goading, and was working himself up to it on his own. McKay's eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

"Of course," he said, unusually quiet, "I could always make the choice for you. If I'm caught I die, so I don't really have anything to lose then do I? I kill the both of us." It had the desired effect— cold shock took over that wild look in Sheppard's eyes. He let out a derisive laugh. "Face it, it's the only way you're going to get rid of me. Doesn't matter if you do it or I do it, I'm just as dead either way, huzzah for the greater good."

And with those two words, he knew— instantly— that he had struck a hard chord in Sheppard. It all came down to what he was willing to sacrifice, really. Acceptable deaths.

Pity that Sheppard had never been the kind to accept death.

"All right," he said at last, voice haggard. "What's it going to take to get you out of him?"

"Out?" McKay asked, as if the thought hadn't occurred to him. Inwardly, he was chuckling, amused by how easily Sheppard was playing into his hands and the resultant mental screams from his host. "Oh, what, so you could shoot _me_ without risk to a host? _Sure_, I can see the brilliance of _that_ plan. That may be the _stupidest_ thing I've ever heard you say, Colonel."

"You haven't heard it yet," Sheppard muttered, wishing Elizabeth were here. She'd be able to talk this thing down. "Why does it matter to you? Like you said, you might not survive either way. You let Rodney go, we'd be more inclined to return the favor."

McKay only gave him a patronizing glare. "Right now I'm my own walking hostage. You idiots are so concerned about the _vessel_ that I don't have to worry about getting killed. So unless you've got something else to offer—"

"_Me_."

McKay's eyes narrowed again; Sheppard didn't even dare to breathe.

He knew exactly what he was offering… and what he was putting on the line. But Sheppard couldn't see any other alternative— if he didn't get the Goa'uld out of him somehow, Rodney was going to _die_. His stomach threatened to upend on him, both at that thought, and what he was about to do.

Sheppard swallowed it down. "You heard me. You don't need Rodney;" there was almost a note of desperation to Sheppard's voice, and for a moment, McKay toyed with the idea of making the man plead. Tempting though it was, he didn't want to push it.

After a long moment, his serious expression cracked, and he let out a short laugh. "You're serious. Okay. _Sure_, why _shouldn't_ I? I mean, I don't even see a downside here," he said, triumph ringing in his voice.

Sheppard had never thought it possible to feel hope and complete despair at the same time, but he was well on the way to proving himself wrong. _Don't think it over, don't focus on anything but getting Rodney free._

Hesitantly, he lowered the stunner, an inch at first, than a few more, waiting for the inevitable burst of pain.

McKay noted the uncertainty, and rolled his eyes. "Don't worry, Sheppard, I'm not going to— hm, 'shoot myself in the foot'," he quipped with a measurable degree of self-satisfaction. "Or any other part of _us_." The thing seemed to be scrutinizing him, almost possessively, and colonel was suddenly fighting the urge to throw up again; he doubled up, mentally using the excuse that he had to get his weapon to the ground. _This is it_. This was where he got royally screwed over.

Surprisingly— McKay tossed the pistol to one side. It didn't mean he still wasn't screwed, but at least there was promise for Rodney.

_All right._ McKay shifted himself in his seated position so he was now leaned back against the wall. His eyes never leaving the scientist, who wore an unimpressed expression, Sheppard dug into a pocket on his vest with one hand and reached for his KA-BAR with the other.

Noting what Sheppard was pulling out; "You've _got_ to be kidding me." The dryness of it held an unfamiliar quality— it seemed the Goa'uld didn't care about toying with Sheppard's head, not now that it was—

The colonel halted that line of thought, clenching his teeth together. He tossed a set of flex cuffs at the scientist— they skidded across the floor, coming to rest against one of McKay's boots. He made no move to pick it up, instead staring at it and then glancing up at the colonel.

Sheppard held up a second pair, looking unamused. "For _me_. I don't want you killing him," he said simply. "But I don't trust you not to just shoot me and run in the meantime. So _put them on_."

"You know these wouldn't hold me if I wanted out. But I'll humor you," McKay said, seeming in contrast to be quite entertained by the whole concept. Smirking, he reached for the plastic restraints while Sheppard was busy securing his own hands, tugging at the plastic strips with his teeth.

When he was done with that, he picked up the utility knife, flipping it to point the blade downwards. McKay was watching him— "Colonel, _really_."

Ignoring the parasite— hell, ignoring _himself_, because if he actually listened to his own worries and thought it out, he was going to lose it— Sheppard leaned forward and planted the knife in the floor.

"For me?" it asked sarcastically.

Sheppard narrowed his eyes. "For _McKay_," he grated.

"Whatever suits your fancy."

The soldier sat back on his knees, breath catching in his throat. This was it… It wasn't the first time he had offered himself up like this, but this time he knew exactly what he was risking— he could still remember being controlled by Thalan— he and Elizabeth had nearly killed each other, not to mention the damage they'd dealt to Atlantis and her people. And yet, that seemed meaningless by comparison. He might as well have handed the Goa'uld a P90 and told it to go have some fun. _What the hell am I doing?!_

Apparently, the parasite decided it had waited long enough. Sheppard swore as he saw McKay's back arch, face contorted in pain— his eyes flashed once, before a cry of pain bubbled up through his throat.

The colonel didn't have time to even call his friend's name as the black parasite burst from McKay's spinal column and moved towards _him_, blindingly fast. Swearing again and at the top of his lungs, Sheppard tried to scramble back, to get at the stunner, but his bound hands couldn't get a good grip on it.

And then it was on him. Abandoning the weapon, he tried to grab at the creature, feeling the slimy— _bloody_— writhing skin beneath his hands as he tried to pin it between his shoulder and forearm while he groped for a hold of it— but it moved too much, wrapping up and around his throat. Sheppard tried to jerk away from it but lost his grip.

He tried to scream as he felt the Goa'uld pierce the skin at the base of his neck. He tried to thrash, but instead, he went into a convulsion; the only sound he made was a sort of choking noise, but then that too was cut off. _Oh hell… I'm so sorry,_ he thought through the agony.

And then just as quickly, Sheppard froze— his eyes snapped open and refocused on the man in front of him.


	20. Misdirection

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Sunday, 26 August 2007**

A/N: You know how I've said I'll get chapters up on time, forbidding an act of God or Parents? Yesterday's a good example of this.

As y'all know, I missed a chapter on Tuesday to go back and fix some stuff. As a couple of you will know, I had every intention of posting a chapter on Saturday to make up for that. That, uh… obviously didn't happen. But, here we are today, and, apologies for not getting it up sooner.

That said, class starts up again tomorrow for me, and likely for some of you as well. What this means for Ophidia I don't know… I have no plans to change the update schedule though. Just… if I end up posting them late at night or something. So you know. •sheepish grin•

* * *

**Chapter 19: Misdirection  
**

* * *

_He tried to scream as he felt the Goa'uld pierce the skin at the base of his neck. He tried to thrash, but instead, he went into a convulsion; the only sound he made was a sort of choking noise, but then that too was cut off. Oh hell… I'm so sorry, he thought through the agony._

_And then just as quickly, Sheppard froze— his eyes snapped open and refocused on the man in front of him._

* * *

The scientist looked like a sorry excuse for a human being— he was shaking, looked as though he were about to retch— his terrified eyes were locked on to Sheppard's.

The soldier's mouth pulled to one side in a grin, eyes never leaving McKay's, holding them and holding the man who seemed frozen in place. This never grew old— even when he wasn't in them, he could still tugging at their strings, like so many puppets.

And the strength! True, nothing like what it should have been— but he was no longer in the weak scientist's body, stunned many times over. He felt renewed, revitalized.

Without warning, McKay dove for the knife that John had stabbed into the floor, no longer paralyzed by fear—

Instead of trying to use his secured hands, Sheppard swung one leg out from under him, delighted at the ease with which the movements came. His combat boot collided with the side of Rodney's face; a sick feeling rose from his host as the other man's head snapped back with enough force to give _Sheppard_ whiplash.

McKay fell to the side, going strangely limp. The screams within the soldier's head made him shake it irritably, as if trying to shoo a gnat or fly. Now splayed out awkwardly— one leg stretched in front of his body, the other folded under him— he expected it to be difficult to reach the utility knife. Nonetheless, he reached for it, pleasantly surprised when his new body responded with more than he'd expected. Sheppard was rather agile for someone so large, he thought, letting it dribble down for his host to hear.

It started a new slew of mental cursing, including several rather creative ones that the Goa'uld hadn't heard from any of his others.

But these cuffs were growing uncomfortable. There would be time for testing his new form later. Flipping the blade over in his hands, he gingerly maneuvered it towards the nylon strip, careful to keep it away from his skin. _I told you, I don't want to hurt… us,_ he hissed at the original.

John raged at it again— without a voice to grow hoarse, it didn't seem like he was going to give up any time soon. The parasite felt him pulling at the edges of his control— like trying to move a beach, one grain of sand at a time. He smirked, deftly twisting the knife. One side of the flex cuffs split open, and he pulled his hand free. Moments later, the whole plastic thing fell to the ground, clean cuts through both straps.

Pushing himself to his feet, Sheppard wandered over towards McKay. A second well placed kick to the man's solar plexus had the physicist curling in on himself. Sheppard shook his head again at the pitiful sounds coming from the human in front of him, smile still on his face.

Perhaps this one would be more interesting without his presence in its mind.

"Get up," Sheppard all but spat. Muttering; "_Pathetic_."

Humans were altogether too fragile. With an abundance of them serving him, it wouldn't be an issue— but he had neither servants nor _abundance_ at the moment. And maybe it wasn't so bad… after all, he suspected this one would ultimately prove to be more _annoying_ if alive. The host seemed to think quite highly of his capabilities at any rate. Sheppard's dark smile returned as McKay twitched some, trying to unclench his stomach muscles.

"That's right, Rodney." His voice was deceptively smooth and encouraging. "_Get up_."

McKay glanced up at him, his eyes almost a little glassy— it did little to diminish the wild look, though. The scientist tried to jerk away as best he could, but the soldier was already kneeling next to him.

He seized Rodney's hands with one of his own, pulling him up into a sitting position. McKay tried to pull away again and when that failed, leaned as far out as his arms would allow, tilting precariously to the side. If it weren't for Sheppard's iron grip, McKay probably would have fallen flat on his face again.

The pilot took this opportunity to look the other man over— already a bright red welt covered half of McKay's cheek on the one side and was starting to discolor around the edges. "Let— _go of me!_" The scientist continued to try and yank himself free, his voice tiny and shrill.

"You're boring." The apparent non-sequitur was joined by a frown that took over Sheppard's amusement. "I kinda hoped you'd be more… entertaining," Sheppard remarked in his familiar childish way.

McKay caught the flash of the blade as the other man whipped it up. He tried to throw himself to one side, anything to get away, but Sheppard strong armed him back up.

Suddenly, Rodney found himself collapsing to one side, and groaned as his head slammed back into the floor. One of his arms was folded beneath him, the other still held in Sheppard's grasp— Sheppard cut the cuffs. Why would he do that? McKay's head buzzed, and he heard an amused snort from somewhere above him. "You're pathetic, you know that?" The scientist didn't dare move this time— apparently, not the reaction he was looking for, as Sheppard made a sound of disappointment.

"Pity. Well, if there's no reason to keep you around, I don't think I can let you go."

Unable to keep a yelp down, McKay flinched again, instinctively trying to pull himself free. Looking up, he saw another grin across Sheppard's face.

"Oh, so you are still in there." He pressed his lips together into a small grin, seeming content to watch the fright in McKay's expression and actions. "I suppose I could _not_ kill you." His grip on McKay's arm tightened to painful levels, and the latter suppressed a gasp. "But I don't think I want you working against me."

Before Rodney could do anything to try to stop him— not there was anything— Sheppard had yanked his arm forward, slamming it into the ground and pulling McKay right after it. Then—

* * *

Ronon had one hand clamped across his shoulder— he could still feel blood oozing from under it, slick and warm. It wasn't debilitating, though, and he wasn't about to stop, not when he knew McKay had to be close.

Suddenly, a single— almost unearthly— scream pierced the air. The Satedan paused for a moment, for once at a loss for what to do, but then began to follow the tortured sound before it faded, not even bothering to hold pressure to his own wound anymore.

His hand was otherwise occupied with his blaster.

* * *

McKay clawed at the ground with his left hand, facedown on the floor, in contrast trying to keep his right hand and arm as still as humanly possible.

Sheppard looked on with smug satisfaction; _admiring_ his handiwork. Having risen from the floor, after a moment, he tapped McKay's right arm with his booted foot— that movement alone brought enough pain to make the man's arm spasm, eliciting a half-cry of pain that he fought to keep contained.

Smiling, Sheppard began looking over the area, his eyes settling on the Beretta he had dropped earlier while in the other. McKay, meanwhile, had clamped his left hand onto his right— and around the blade of the knife that was buried in the floor… _through_ his hand.

Even shuddering and weak as he was, he didn't miss the blood that pumped out with every flutter of his heart— the blade itself was oriented with the bones, and judging from the twitching in his fingers— each of which moved his hand imperceptibly and thus sent waves of agony up the whole limb— the tendons weren't severed. He hadn't gotten so lucky with his blood vessels, it seemed.

Something in the back of his mind— maybe something Carson had told him once and he should have been paying closer attention— told him he was supposed to leave the knife there. But the slightest tremble caused intense pain that was threatening to make him pass out— it felt like the flesh was on fire, or being shredded and eaten. _Lots of nerve endings,_ he thought dimly.

And besides, was he _really_ supposed to just lay there pinned to the floor and unable to move and give the Goa'uld an _easier_… target? Upon glancing up, he saw the colonel inspecting the magazine in McKay's M9.

Suddenly feeling desperate, McKay reached up and wrapped his hand around the hilt of the knife. Sucking for breath, he clenched his eyes and pulled upwards. This time, he nearly puked, and couldn't keep in the ghost of a whimper as he lay his head back down, waiting for the vertigo to pass.

_Sheppard_… That stupid, cocky _bastard!_ McKay had to suppress a sob as he pulled at the knife again, embedded not only in his hand but firmly in the floor as well. What, did he think he could _beat it?!_ He wanted to scream at the colonel, berate him for his sheer lunacy, but then, it wasn't the colonel, was it? _Oh God…_

Finally, and he could swear it made a _sound_ so sickening that Rodney knew he _would_ have vomited if he wasn't already too far gone in pain to feel nauseous, the blade slid out, bringing with it a tiny spurt of blood.

Too weak to keep a hold of the knife anymore, it clattered uselessly to the floor. Sheppard started at the noise and turned to see McKay clutching his bloody hand— his _profusely_ bloody hand— to his chest, eyes starting to go a little glassy.

Without warning, a huge figure burst around the corner— Sheppard jumped, swearing hotly and threw himself against the corridor wall, and even McKay was startled back into awareness, the fresh rush of adrenaline making his heart pound out of control… he could feel his pulse through his hand. _Hah. _Something made him want to giggle at that, and he wondered if that meant was getting delirious.

"_Ronon?_ Shit…" McKay's heart wasn't the only one racing, judging from the way Sheppard was clutching at his own chest. "Finally!" The way the parasite was clutching at Sheppard's chest, Rodney corrected. Using Sheppard to clutch at Sheppard's chest. Another laugh wanted to work itself up— instead, he hiccupped once, quietly.

"Hold it," Ronon commanded, pointing his gun at the colonel. Sheppard went wide eyed, gripping the pistol tighter.

_I didn't know he's such a good actor,_ Rodney thought, his mind a bit fuzzy and wondering why his whole chest felt like it was soaked.

"What's wrong with you?" Sheppard asked, sounding perfectly incensed.

Ronon let out a half-amused snort. "Can't be too careful. Sorry, Sheppard."

The colonel tilted his head back in appreciation of what was about to happen. "Oh, _son_ of a—"

The whine of Ronon's stunner cut him off, and he crumpled to the ground, the 9 mil slipping from his hand on the way down.

"You shot him," McKay said, voice high and soft. Apparently, too soft, as Ronon didn't appear to hear him. "Thank God," he muttered, shifting slightly. "You got it, you finally got it…"

When Ronon turned to face him at last, though, Rodney felt a spike of fear that jarred him back into awareness yet again. _That doesn't look very sympathetic. Even for Ronon._

"H-hey, Ronon…"

"Quiet," the Satedan commanded, his voice lowering to a growl and gun trained on McKay as he drew nearer. It was quite ridiculous, really, _yes, let's shoot the bleeding man who has no weapon and can't get up_. But McKay caught sight of the wound in Ronon's shoulder when the large man kneeled next to him and realized that his case wasn't exactly going to make itself.

"Wait, you don't— _ah!_" Ronon had turned him slightly and jarred his injured arm, not to mention pushing his face back towards the floor. Unexpectedly, pain came from a second source as well— on the back of his neck, and he wondered vaguely if Ronon had stabbed him. No, no, he could still feel his hand, much as he wished he didn't, so his spinal cord was still in tact—

_Of course, the exit wound… which… looks like an __**entry**__ wound… Oh, __**crap**_, he thought, as he saw Ronon's legs move several feet back, presumably with Ronon attached and presumably with that fancy _gun_ of his with him. McKay tried to push himself up or at least twist to face the other man.

"No, no no no Ronon you don't…"

One more time the energy weapon cut off its victim mid sentence. Ronon watched McKay, who didn't collapse dramatically like Sheppard had, simply going still after a shudder or two. He wished he could get some satisfaction from it, but instead, all that came was a deep, bitter feeling.

Sighing, Ronon leaned back against the wall, sliding down until he was seated on the floor with the unconscious men. His body seemed to remember it was injured all of a sudden, and his shoulder throbbed uncomfortably.

He tapped at the radio in his ear, draping his other arm across his knees wearily; "…I found him." He then tilted his head back, and closed his eyes to wait.


	21. Prejudice

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Monday, 27 August 2007**

A/N: Nice sized chapter today, almost on time. Tomorrow's not looking so good. •winces• Er, expect tomorrow's chapter to be up later in the day than usual.

I'm sure I can expect some screams about this one. Trust me, I wanted to carry it further in the story, bring it to a place you could be more content with, but one, the chapter was getting too long (I try to keep them around 2000 words, remember!) and two, I'm running out of time. As in, I have class in, like, less than an hour, and won't be home for about… what, four hours? Late.

Screams? some of you are asking… Well… keep reading!

* * *

**Chapter 20: Prejudice**

* * *

_Of course, the exit wound… which… looks like an __**entry**__ wound… Oh, __**crap**__, he thought. McKay tried to push himself up or at least twist to face the other man._

"_No, no no no Ronon you don't…"_

_One more time the energy weapon cut off its victim mid sentence. Ronon watched McKay, who didn't collapse dramatically like Sheppard had, simply going still after a shudder or two. _

_He tapped at the radio in his ear. "…I found him."_

* * *

Gossip traveled unusually fast around Atlantis, for a city full of apparent professionals, military, scientific and otherwise. Nothing could have beaten out the direct order from Dr. Weir, though, ordering all non-essential personnel confined to quarters with an apparent intruder on the loose— a Goa'uld, something Kate Heightmeyer had never had the pleasure of dealing with. All the same, the concept was at once both terrifying and intriguing for a psychologist.

'Non-essential personnel' for an invasion of the city, however, amounted to most of the scientific and medical staff— including psychologists. Kate couldn't help but feel a bit left out— from what she knew of these creatures, her expertise would undoubtedly be needed at some point, and yet, she was completely without information or even aware of the current state of things.

Patience was something she had learned to have, luckily; curiosity came on its own, though, and was doing its best to overrule the aforementioned virtue.

Goa'uld, after all, needed hosts.

She didn't wish that on anyone, but all the same, felt the need to know _who_; Kate wanted to think of what she might be dealing with. The same could be said of the creature itself, she hadn't done more than a cursory look at the information provided before the Expedition. They would be a galaxy apart after all, and it was just a bit too squeamish of a topic for light, independent research.

Not for the first time, she wished she had her computer with her; instead, it was sitting in her office, and the uplink to the Expedition's shared data files with it. As it was, she was currently curled up on her bed, rereading the same paragraph in her latest book for what was probably the eighth time.

With a soft sigh, she set the book down on her lap for a moment to watch the sky outside her window. She didn't have a view of the sun itself rising, but it was a beautiful show every morning nonetheless. But that too failed to hold her attention.

Having enough knowledge to know that _something_ was going on, but not enough to understand it was driving her mad. Hers was a profession that made analyzing and connecting and _knowing_ not only habit, but second-nature.

Kate lifted her book again, about to go back for round nine, futile as it may have been, when a chime sounded from her door.

Starting a bit, Kate clutched the book to her chest, watching the door.

After a moment, Teyla Emmagan's voice called out; "Dr. Heightmeyer?"

The psychologist almost literally breathed a sigh of relief, placing her open book face down on the edge of her bed before getting up to answer. "Teyla," she said, waving her hand in front of the panel that would open the door. "I can assume you're not here to personally tell me the quarantine is lifted?"

The Athosian smiled apologetically, but shook her head nonetheless. "No, but Dr. Beckett has requested your assistance."

"Carson?" the other woman remarked in surprise, retreating back into her room with a wave for Teyla to enter. Teyla remained just outside the door, watching as the psychologist retrieved a pen and notebook. "For a patient?"

"For him." Heightmeyer's expression became tinged with worry; that worry only deepened when she rejoined Teyla and saw the look on her face. A strange knot was starting to twist itself up in her stomach. Teyla, on the other hand, stepped further into the hallway, beckoning for the doctor to follow. "I will explain on the way."

* * *

It wasn't as though Kate had expected Carson to 'spill all'. He just wasn't one of those kind of people, which was all right— she'd had experience with many reticent patients. She could generally keep them talking, if not lively. The conversation between Doctors Heightmeyer and Beckett was anything but animated, though.

Despite the former's most valiant attempts, despite the fact that the man had _asked_ for her, he just wasn't opening up.

He answered her questions readily enough, but simply, and rarely was willing to elaborate. She didn't like to lead her patients, but was having a hard time doing anything else with the man. It didn't help that the psychologist knew little about the situation at hand— all she had learned from Teyla was that the Goa'uld had taken Beckett at one point, and now it was in Rodney McKay— who, after apparently trying to flood the city, was on the loose.

"Why do you think it didn't kill the man in the SGC?" she asked gently, hoping that with a topic not-so-close-to-home, he might be a bit more willing to talk.

It took several seconds for Carson to reply, and when he did, it was with a strangely small voice. "I don't know." Before Heightmeyer had the chance to prompt him again, he sighed in frustration. "Look, I know this isn't helping you or me any, but— …I honestly don't know the answers to these questions… I don't understand it. What it wants, why it did what it did…"

"You have ideas, though," she speculated in turn. When Beckett didn't refute her, she pushed a little deeper. "Let's go over it again, and see what comes up. It tried to use the command chair. Did it do anything there?"

Beckett swallowed hard. "No. It couldn't," he said, pre-empting the inevitable 'why do you think it did that?'. When she asked no more— obviously waiting for him to continue or elaborate— Beckett at last said nothing, shifting uncomfortably under the woman's gaze.

After a long pause, she wouldn't let him get away with it anymore. "And then?"

"And then…" _And then you sold it your best friend_. "It decided to head for greener pastures." That was met with a puzzled look from Dr. Heightmeyer, so Carson sighed and tried to explain. "I couldn't use the chair. It—"

This time, there was no help for the floundering doctor. Kate wasn't going to lead him on or let him change the subject… Beckett frowned. She already knew what happened, why did she want to hear it again? But she showed no signs of reaction, and slowly, the Scot worked himself up to the answer.

"I ran into Rodney, and…"

Noise from the main infirmary drifted into the back room Heightmeyer had commandeered— loud conversation, and from the sound of it—

Beckett jumped to his feet, heading for the door, Kate's protests falling on deaf ears.

Ronon was walking in, blatantly ignoring a medic trying to apply a bandage to his shoulder. Behind him, two gurneys were being wheeled in. Colonel Sheppard… and McKay.

The on-call doctor was peeling off bandaging on McKay's right hand, before shooting Ronon a horrified look. "What did you _do?_"

"Hey, it's a good way to disable opponents without killing them. And I didn't— I found him like that."

A distinct brogue broke in as Beckett asked, "I suppose you found Colonel Sheppard like this as well?"

"Something like that," the Satedan deadpanned.

Beside him, Sheppard was beginning to stir— a PA was moving to see to the man, but Beckett intercepted him, pointing him towards Ronon. "You see to that bullet, I'll take care of this.

"Dr. Beckett;" Heightmeyer had followed him out into the infirmary, and was now staring at him unamusedly.

"Kate," he said, almost apologetically, "I'm sorry but I have work here. Perhaps we can continue this later…"

She looked about ready to fight him on this one, but the argument seemed to die on her lips, fading into a resigned weariness. Without another word— only a slight shake of her head— Heightmeyer turned and departed from the infirmary. Beckett watched her go with a hint of guilt— he had hoped that she would be able to help, but it simply hadn't happened.

Noticing the technicians hesitating around him— he was zoning out again, wasn't he? Damn it— Beckett waved his hand vaguely towards Sheppard. "Em… start prelims on him," he instructed, still a tad distracted. That was Rodney lying over there.

_With the Goa'uld in him._

That thought made him shudder once involuntarily… _Rodney. No, no, it's his body, but it's not him._ Which made the doctor feel no better. While he was trying to pull himself back together, the listless colonel was rousing.

"Sheppard," Ronon greeted evenly.

Sheppard didn't bother to hide his frown as a tech attached a blood pressure cuff to his arm. "Ronon. This is the second time I've woken up in the infirmary."

"Your point?"

"_This morning._" The colonel gave Ronon a dirty look, and not quite as good-natured as usual. "Because _you_ shot me!" Ronon on the other hand was barely suppressing a smug grin.

"Like you've never shot me?"

"You didn't even bother to check if you needed to shoot me!"

Ronon rolled his eyes. "Does it make you feel better that I shot McKay too?"

Sheppard screwed up his face, looking more than just a little disturbed. "_No_," he stated flatly.

To be frank, Beckett was starting to get uncomfortable with their conversation too. "All right, children, break it up." He moved to stand next to Sheppard's infirmary bed, ready to check him over, and the tech with the blood pressure cuff quickly got out of the way. "So, Colonel, apart from the obvious," with which he couldn't help but glance over at Ronon who looked completely unashamed, "any problems?" He pulled his stethoscope on

"_Apart _from the obvious?" Another glare at the side of Ronon's head. "No. Actually," he said, turning to face Beckett, "shouldn't you be focusing on Rodney? I mean, he is the one with…"

The soldier trailed off as Beckett grew oddly still, eyes becoming a little unfocused as he stared off into space. Slowly, Sheppard raised his hand up, before waving a few fingers in front of Beckett's face.

He just had to give a small grin as the doctor refocused on him, looking a little annoyed.

The colonel's mood wasn't infectious this time. "I know full well what's in him, Colonel, and I don't need you reminding me." It wasn't so much that the man sounded aggravated as he did… worn down. "I haven't forgotten," he remarked, more to himself than anyone.

"For the record, I was gonna say 'a hole in his hand', but… that too."

He couldn't help but think, how simple it was for one to accept what they wanted to hear… or what they feared too much to investigate. Distracted as he was, Carson had already made one assumption.

He saw no reason to let the good doctor correct it.

"Honestly, Doc, I'm just fine physically. _Maybe_ a little tired," he amended, seeing Beckett's dry look. "I know I'm no expert, but all I can think of that's going to do me any good right now is some time alone… rest… and think," he said, gently prodding the Scot in the direction he wanted him to go. Screwing up his face again; "I know Heightmeyer's gonna want to talk but honestly, this isn't something that's really easy to _share_."

Again, the man seemed to go off into his own little world; he could sympathize with Sheppard. Oh _Mary_, could he sympathize. Finally remembering the stethoscope, he placed the diaphragm up against the man's back— went to show how often Sheppard had been here that he didn't have to tell him what to do anymore. They went through the motions of listening to his breathing, till Carson pulled away, and Sheppard began again.

"You know— Carson— you look like you could do with the same," he said, lowering his voice.

"Aye." The Scot let out a rueful snort. "Who couldn't?"

"I'm serious, Doc—" He jerked his head to where Ronon was being treated by the physician's assistant. "Things are under control here. I can't make it an order… But c'mon Beckett…" He tossed an obvious glance towards Rodney, who was being prepared for surgery. "I know you don't want to be here."

"That hardly has anything to do with whether or not I _should_ be here." Sheppard could see that despite Beckett's words, he didn't feel the same conviction he was trying to display. Inwardly, he felt a surge of pleasure at the way things were turning.

"But it has _everything_ to with 'if you're _fit_ to be here'. Not saying you don't know what you're doing," Sheppard was quick to add. "But how many times have I been pulled off duty for the same damn reason?"

He could see the cogs turning in Carson's head, and decided to push one last time.

"I'll agree to go rest if you will. Without even complaining!" he added lightly.

The other man let out an amused, but distracted laugh. "There's a first."

"C'mon," Sheppard said, slapping Beckett's shoulder gently. "Sleep will do us both good."

Beckett could imagine the inevitable jokes that would stem from that, and nearly choked as the thought flitted into his mind. A moment later, though, he sobered as he realized that Rodney would have been the one mocking Sheppard about it. So, instead he reminded the colonel, "_You've_ been unconscious half the morning already."

At least this time Sheppard managed to keep a small smile on his face— and didn't turn to glare at the Satedan who was currently busy getting stitches. "Yes, well, being unconscious and being _stunned_ aren't quite the same as being _asleep_. Contrary to popular belief."

Beckett was hard pressed to contain a laugh. "All right, all right," Beckett said, finally caving. He put out a hand to stop another tech who was trying to continue the inspection of the colonel.

"Sir?"

"Leave him, he's good," Beckett commented. The technician gave him a puzzled stare, but after a moment seemed to shrug to themselves and went to help the next patient. Noticing Sheppard's own expression, which seemed to be caught somewhere between disbelief and amazement. "I'll take a page out of your book, Colonel."

A wide grin split the soldier's face. "Dr. Beckett referencing the Sheppard Book of Medicine?"

"I know, the Apocalypse is nigh. Now, off with you!" Carson suddenly made to shoo Sheppard away, pretending irritation but unable to keep the vestiges of a smile from his face as the soldier hopped not-quite-so-nimbly from the bed. "Out of my infirmary. You're in here entirely too much!"

"Preaching to the choir, Beckett. I'm _going_," he insisted, as Beckett took a 'threatening' step towards him, and backed out of attack range, smile never leaving his face. "Don't forget to do the same."

Beckett had already turned away, but called over his shoulder, "The sooner I'm done with a certain colonel, the sooner I can be done here."

Sheppard threw a mock salute at the man's back, before heading to the infirmary exit. Upon reaching it, he paused, turning slightly to glance back at the doctor, rubbing one hand apparently self-consciously over his neck. His wide grin became toned down into the hint of a smile.

Things were turning out better than he'd thought possible. And now, it seemed, he at last had _time_. Rodney would be under anaesthesia for hours and he had slipped past any intense scrutiny— it was simple when you knew all the right buttons to push. _I suppose I just know you too well, Carson._


	22. Reconciled

**Ophidia   
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic   
Tuesday, 28 August 2007**

A/N: Agh. . What possessed me to take Chem, Psych, Physics, and Sign Language all at the same time? Any one is an intensive class. But all four! •pounds head into desk• Stupid, stupid, stupid!

A little late, my apologies. It _is_ up, though, which is more than I expected, to be fair. No clue if I'll be able to get tomorrow's up on time— depends on my homework. Er… if it doesn't go up at it's usual time (generally around 5-5:30 EST), then I can guarantee you it won't be up for at least another five to six hours. I'll try, though! •winces•

Emm… lessee, what else… oh yeah. I'm trying to move the story on, I really am! It just keeps running away with itself, and I don't have the time now to write much more than the standard 2000-2500 word chapters. Come Friday and the weekend though, I'll finally have some time, and room to breath. (•chants• Only three and a half more months, only three and a half more months, only three and a half more months…)

* * *

**Chapter 21: Reconciled**

* * *

Dr. Weir walked the hallways of Atlantis, now lit by midday sun. The traffic in the halls was a bit thicker, a bit more rushed than usual, as personnel struggled to repair damaged systems, restore altered programs, and make up for the morning's lost work time.

Weir alone seemed to be moving without an sense of urgency, choosing instead to smile and nod at those who passed her, encouraging them and praising their diligence. It wasn't an uncommon sight for the members of the Expedition— theirs was a leader who enjoyed being out in the City, lending her oversight and support. Today, though she didn't show it, she too moved with a purpose.

On the one hand, she was walking away from Heightmeyer's office.

_Kate was trying to hide a frown as Dr. Weir walked in, making the latter wonder what exactly their resident therapist had called her in for. She couldn't imagine that Kate would want an appointment with her over this morning's ordeal— while it had been tense and still was upsetting, it wasn't what Elizabeth would call 'traumatizing'. _

_True, she had considered asking to talk with the psychologist, some time in the future when there weren't more pressing needs in the City. All the same, this was pretty forward for Heightmeyer._

_Which made Elizabeth theorize that it wasn't __**her**__ that Kate wanted to talk about._

_Her suspicions were confirmed as the woman rose to greet her, before diving right into the matter at hand; "I talked to Carson."_

And that brought her to where she was _going_. She had put it off for a while— give the Scottish doctor some time to ease up and get past the strain of reliving his experience. But now, as operations in Atlantis were returning to some semblance of normalcy, she decided she couldn't put it off any longer.

Officially, she was going in order to discuss the state of the infirmary with him— it hadn't suffered the most damage, with the ruined MRI scanner being the worst of it. However, she felt it was one of the most important sections, even with the loss of the crucial scanner, and wanted to discuss what resources needed to be shifted there. Unofficially…

"_It didn't go well," Heightmeyer said simply, as the two women seated themselves. "I think this whole thing has affected Dr. Beckett much more than he wants to let on, and, as long as he tries to shut it in, I don't know if there's anything I can do to help him."_

_Weir raised her hand to her mouth; a habitual gesture when she was lost in thought. She needed to make a decision… but after a moment, realized that this was not information she could merely pass over. This was important. _

"_Kate," she started. "I need you to tell me everything you talked about."_

_She could see the hesitation in Heightmeyer's posture; this information was private, and she was reluctant to share, even with the leader of their Expedition. Weir felt momentarily guilty about the position she was putting the woman in, but didn't relent._

"_I know it's patient-doctor privilege, and I can see this is difficult for you to be asked— normally, I wouldn't. But we aren't facing normal circumstances, and right now, Dr. Beckett could be in a position to help more than any other person in this City." She leaned forward in the chair. "I need to know, Kate, for Atlantis' sake."_

And yet again, she was caught between the position of leader and friend. Weir had tried to stretch her walk, letting it take her all over Atlantis and back again, using the time to try to sort over the thoughts in her head. She was running out of places to check on, though, and finally— with a sort of resignation— Elizabeth allowed herself to be carried to the medical area.

The first face she met was— …unexpected, to say the least.

"Ronon. I must say, I'm… a bit surprised to see you still in here." Weir had received the morning's report from the infirmary, noting the large man's injury. But that had been hours ago.

Judging from the look on his face, Ronon wasn't too happy with the situation. "They're afraid I'm going to tear it open." This time his grimace was directed towards the one of the on-call doctors.

It was impossible for Weir to hide her grin; instead, she tried to look as sympathetic as possible, taking a moment to resolve herself before she tried to speak again. "I don't suppose you'd know where Dr. Beckett disappeared to?"

The Satedan jerked his thumb towards the closed door of Beckett's office— funny, the lights were off, which was why she hadn't checked there first. Nodding her thanks and trying not to chuckle at Ronon's disappointed look when he was left alone again, Weir walked across the room, waving her hand across the panel to its side.

Not for the first time, she found herself wishing the Ancients had thought to invent hinges— at least then she could have cracked the door open first, and would have seen the sleeping Scot before she flooded the whole room with light.

"Mm… Elizabeth?" came the sleepy brogue; she winced silently.

"I'm sorry Carson, I didn't know— I can come back another time—"

"No, no… I'm awake now." Weir knew this was at least somewhat false, as it was followed by a loud yawn.

She mused, "Really." Beckett was sitting up on the cot, rubbing at his eyes, before gesturing Weir towards the seat behind his desk.

Offering a sheepish smile; "So what can I do for you?"

Had to give him this— Beckett put up a good front. If she hadn't spoken to Kate so recently, Weir'd never have known anything was wrong. Seating herself; "Business, actually. The whole City's getting back on its feet, but I wanted to see how you all are doing."

"Eh, I wouldn't really be the one to ask right now," he admitted, making somewhat of a face. "But… I doubt too much has happened over the past few hours." His eyebrows went up as he thought it over. "There wasn't that much material damage to begin with— not counting the scanner, of course."

Weir made a face of her own. "So I've heard. I asked some of the engineers to take a look at it—" …_what's left of it—_ "but they say there's nothing they can do."

"I could have told you it's a lost cause." Beckett shook his head, leaning forward to place his hands on his knees. "Even if it weren't, we don't exactly have spare parts— it'll have to be replaced." The import he was trying impress upon her was lost somewhat when he tried to stifle another yawn.

"Hmm." Weir had pressed her lips into a thin line of dissatisfaction, not at what Beckett said, but what it meant for them. Rising to her feet, she walked towards the door to look out over the infirmary; a shuffling sound from behind told her that Beckett had followed, and she stepped out into the main room. "And that could take days, even assuming that the SGC were willing to send someone through with it." She shook her head in a silent sigh, before looking back to Beckett. "What about some of the Ancient technology? Could something in here be repurposed to that end?"

"Aye, most likely— we have _their_ medical scanners, but we've never tried to use them for something like this," he explained, coming to stand beside her. "As I understand it, though, the scientists are still busy trying to fix systems citywide—" He accompanied the next bit with a waggling of his fingers; "everything's a bit tetchy at best, and completely dead otherwise," he concluded, waving his hand dismissively.

Elizabeth's frown deepened. "That needs to be a priority— I'll get Radek's team on it."

"Radek?" Suddenly, Beckett's expression was mirroring hers. "He shouldn't be up and about."

"Perhaps, but, who else do we have?" They both cast uneasy glances towards the far back room— the quarantine doors were currently retracted, allowing one to glimpse one unconscious Rodney McKay. While the medical doctor's gaze lingered there, Weir's turned back to _him_.

When he wasn't trying to hide it… when he forgot he was being watched… then the worry and the wear showed through. When Beckett turned back and saw her expression, his own fell. After a moment, he let out his breath, smiling ruefully.

"You didn't really come here for business, did you?"

Weir tilted her head to the side, worry creasing her forehead. "Carson…" When he turned away from her, she closed her eyes, bringing one hand to her forehead. "You must understand."

"Why did you talk to Dr. Heightmeyer?"

How had he known? As she knew she would have to eventually— just not so _soon_— Weir stepped up to defend her decision. "Carson, in this instance, I need any information that you have. Right now," she said, voice rising, "there is a Goa'uld in one of our personnel, and we currently have no way of investigating it or getting it out." By this time she was gesturing sharply.

Gently, Beckett caught one of her hands, lowering her arm. "That I understand," he said evenly, if unhappily. "Even if I don't like it, I understand. And I'm not going to argue…" For a long moment, the two watched each other, both with some measure of dissatisfaction in their expression. At last, he couldn't leave it unsaid any more. "I wish you hadn't asked Kate. I wished you had just come straight to _me._"

"As _I_ recall, I did," she stated carefully.

He glanced away, obviously discontent with their current topic of conversation. As much as she still felt the sting from their earlier conversation, when he had brushed off her concerns and refused help, she could see that she had just done much the same, and felt a pang of remorse. Elizabeth sighed silently again, closing her eyes and taking a moment to compose herself.

"I would have," she admitted at last. "But I didn't think you'd want to talk about it again."

Still not looking at her, but seeming less upset in voice and posture, Beckett replied, "No, I probably wouldn't have."

Even though he couldn't see her, Weir tilted her head, imploringly. "Dr. Heightmeyer's worried about you, Carson. And frankly, so am I. You hardly spoke with her… And you're not acting like yourself— this whole ordeal has obviously had a profound impact on you, and your work."

When the Scot turned to face her again, his mouth was pulled to the side in a slight frown. "Forgive me if I'm not acting normal," he said, but without bite. "But these aren't exactly normal circumstances."

Weir shifted a little where she stood, aware that he was unconsciously echoing her own words. "I know," she said quietly.

She looked up at Beckett, and their eyes met— and at last, there was some understanding in the exchanged look. They held each other's gaze a long moment, standing just outside his office, oblivious to the medical staff working around them. Unsurprisingly, it was Beckett who broke the contact, but he didn't seem so ill at ease when he did; Weir even managed a small smile as he began to stroll the length of the infirmary idly, following beside him.

After several seconds of silence, he asked, "How obvious?" There was a hint of trepidation in the question, and it seemed so… _normal_, that Weir just wanted to laugh. As it was, she made do with a hidden smile.

"Quite," she assured him.

He grimaced, then looking upwards a bit helplessly. Unable to help herself, Weir turned her head to the side, shaking with silent laughter. While she was turned that way, she caught sight of someone entering the infirmary. "Teyla!"

Beckett's head turned at that as well, and the Athosian smiled to the two. "Dr Weir. Dr Beckett," she added, before coming to a halt near where Ronon was sitting on top of an infirmary bed, perched like some gargoyle and doing a good imitation of one with the way he was glaring at the passing med techs. She raised one eyebrow at the man. "Ronon."

"Hey. What's up?"

"Nothing," she assured him, though it was in part for Beckett, who had been watching her with puzzlement. "I merely came to see how you were doing."

"I'm doing _fine_," Ronon insisted, giving Beckett a pointed look. "I was shot in the shoulder, not the leg, but I'm not allowed to even walk," he muttered with more than a little disparagement.

Beckett returned the stare, thoroughly unimpressed; Weir had wondered how the staff was keeping Ronon here short of strapping him to a bed— it seemed she had her answer. The Scot seemed as indomitable as ever. He was saying, "You've also lost a great deal of blood, and amusing as it would be to get a report saying you've _fainted_ somewhere in the City, I'd rather prevent you from doing something stupid in the first place. …Are you sure you're all right?" he asked all of a sudden, directing the question at Teyla.

The woman had one hand pressed up against her middle, right below her ribcage; in fact, she now seemed slightly embarrassed, despite the doctor's worry.

"I am fine," she assured him about as convincing as Ronon. "It is… sore… I was just sparring with John."

"Well, Carson, it seems you've work to get back to," Weir broke in, smiling apologetically. "And so do I." Before she left, she caught his eyes and attention one last time, the weight of her words well hidden; "Call me if you need anything."

Beckett nodded solemnly, and she departed. Then, turning back to Teyla and Ronon; "Sparring. I ought to have known." He shook his head with a snort. "Lying bugger, he told me he would rest." It wasn't hard to figure out whom he was talking about; neither of the other two bothered to hide their amusement. Then Beckett pointed one accusing finger at Ronon. "And don't you tell me that fighting is relaxing or some such nonsense."

Ronon only lifted his palms, looking slightly incensed, as if to say, 'what gives?'; Teyla smiled at the both of them, but the expression quickly faded.

"Teyla?" Seriousness returned to Ronon's voice, sensing something was wrong.

She didn't answer, staring past both men. They twisted to follow her gaze, all the way back to the quarantine room. Ronon's feature's hardened, and Beckett's became blank. Teyla, at the least, looked concerned; perhaps they would have too, if they had noticed what she had.

"I believe," she said, drawing their attention back to her, "that Rodney is awake."


	23. Revelations

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Friday, 31 August 2007**

A/N: Okay, yes, more than a little late— but much more complete! For… what that's worth.

…I'm gonna owe y'all a _lot_ of weekend chapters if I keep this up. Sigh…

* * *

**Chapter 22: Revelations**

* * *

"_I believe," Teyla said, drawing Ronon and Beckett's attention back to her, "that Rodney is awake."_

* * *

Ronon's head was turned to his right— he could feel the pull in his left shoulder as it stretched the injured skin, but ignored it… and this time, not just for the fact that he could.

He, Beckett, and Teyla all watched, transfixed, as McKay started to rouse, listless and disoriented at first, then more frantic as consciousness returned to him. One of the passing techs saw the strange group and followed their gaze; a second later, she was yelling out to the on-call doctor and other assistants. In less than a minute, a team was assembling and swarming towards the back room.

Finally refusing to be limited to this far corner of the infirmary, Ronon pushed himself up; Beckett was too distracted to stop him. After a few steps, though, he paused and turned back.

Dr. Beckett was looking pale, like he was about to fall over. What was the saying Sheppard used? 'Deer in the headlights'? Ronon wasn't sure what a deer was, but if it acted anything like Beckett was now, it was probably easy to kill.

The man jumped when Teyla laid her hand on his arm. "Perhaps we should move some place else," she suggested.

"No," Beckett said shortly, surprising the both of them. "No…" He drew a deep breath. "I think I need to do just the opposite," he whispered to himself, heading towards McKay's isolation room, flinching as the man started yelling.

"What's going _on_ here?!" Apparently McKay had just realized that he was strapped to the infirmary bed. "Where's Sheppard?! _Let me go!_"

"If you keep thrashing like that," the doctor was telling him coolly, "you'll only hurt yourself, and we'll re-sedate you. There _should_ be a security team in here," he added over her shoulder, and a tech scrambled away to call for them. "And someone get these doors shut," he called out over Rodney's loud protestations.

"Dr. Wright— Hold on there a second," Beckett said to a technician who was about to set the Ancient doors to close. "Dr. Wright, I can take care of this." It was a somewhat unconvincing argument, especially as his voice cracked about halfway through. On the plus side, Beckett's presence had shut McKay up; the latter was straining to see what was happening, until Ronon stepped between him and the two doctors.

"In all honesty sir, I don't think that's a good idea." Wright was nothing if not straightforward.

Beckett nodded once, slowly. "I can understand that. I also happen to be in charge here," he added; with a frown he made no attempt to conceal, Wright out of Beckett's way. His team hesitated a few moments, before they started to vacate the room.

"You! You-you shot me!" —Rodney was now railing at Ronon, whose good hand was resting on his holstered weapon. "I was trying to explain everything and _you shot me!!_"

"Seems to be a recurring theme," Wright remarked dryly. Beckett tried to force a smile, but swallowed instead. This was starting to seem like a bad idea, but— they had to talk to him eventually. And he needed to face this.

A movement to the Scot's side brought his attention to Teyla, who was now standing with him silently. When he caught her gaze, she smiled supportively, and he tried to push the uneasiness back down. Nodding her forward, he made to follow the woman— Wright caught his elbow.

"You're sure about this?" he asked under his breath. Despite his bluntness, Beckett could see that the younger man really was concerned.

For a second, Beckett hemmed and hawed, before he finally admitted, "No." After another beat, Wright nodded, if reluctantly. Letting out his breath, Beckett returned the gesture, as if trying to reassure _himself_. "Get the doors, would you?"

As the senior doctor passed the threshold, Wright pressed his hand to a panel on the outside, and the slats of the quarantine room spun neatly shut, leaving a wall where before there had been none.

And McKay was _still_ at it, voice shrill and going a mile a minute. "What's wrong with you people? It's not _in me!_ _Carson!!_ Why aren't you _listening?_"

"Why should we?" Ronon demanded. "We know you're not McKay."

The scientist's face twisted into some mix of a frustration and hysteria. "Oh you _know_ that, well _excuse me_, I didn't realize you were so _well informed!_ I suppose I _stabbed myself in the hand_ too?! God, you _really do_ have the IQ of a caveman, don't you? How many times do I have to say, _I'm not the Goa'uld!_ It's in _Sheppard!!_"

"Right now," Beckett broke in, his own voice a little shaky; "the evidence points to you."

"Evidence?" McKay demanded. "What _evidence?_ I know you don't have an MRI— _don't_ look at me like that, just because I remember it doesn't mean I did it!"

"The wound on the back of your neck," Teyla said, speaking over Rodney and forcing him to listen. "Not to speak of the _many_ things you did to both your friends _and_ the City." There was a certain anger in her expression—a hurt— that halted McKay for a moment, and he very nearly winced.

Of course Teyla would be angry with him— after what had nearly happened… what he almost did…

After several moments of silence, McKay started again, though far more quietly. "I never said it _wasn't_ in me then…" His eyes fluttered shut in pain as he continued to speak, and surprisingly, Beckett found himself feeling a measure of pity for the man. "But it's not now. It's an _exit wound,_" he insisted, enunciating the words to the point of exasperation.

Beckett couldn't help but point out, "Mine healed."

"All right, _that_ I can't explain, but come on! There's gotta be one on Sheppard, didn't you even bother to check him??" By now, McKay was back to trying to thrash, ineffectually. All the same, Beckett started back a step.

"I could shoot him again," Ronon offered, ignoring the screaming man.

Glancing at Ronon like he was crazy; "I think not! For the love of God," Beckett muttered under his breath, "He's still one of _ours_." But unvoiced was the growing worry that was starting to gnaw at his insides. _Something's very wrong here…_

"Teyla," he said all of a sudden, and very quietly. "You fought him earlier, did you not?"

Confused by his confidentiality, she did not respond for a second. Luckily, when she did, her voice was similarly hushed. "Yes. Why?"

The doctor turned back to Rodney, who had stopped momentarily— the man wasn't focused on any of them, instead, breathing heavily and letting out a soft moan. "You fought him. How strong was he?"

"I… am not sure what you mean." Teyla tilted her head, quizzically. "He overpowered me with unnatural ease. If you are wondering if he could escape these restraints, I do not know."

"Thank you," Beckett responded, suddenly feeling very unsteady. _Sheppard. He talked his way right past me. I was so damn blindsided by thinking it was in Rodney, I didn't even consider…_

McKay seemed to have worked up the strength for another round of berating his teammates by that point. "Look! I know you all think this is nothing but a trick and hate me and what not but what would it cost you to _check?_ If you did, then you'd see Sheppard got himself taken like an idiot and—"

"_Enough,_" Ronon ground out, unholstering his weapon— McKay suddenly cut himself off, eyes going wide as he realized Ronon very well _would_ shoot him again.

"No!" The scientist was able to breathe a sigh of relief when Beckett stepped between him and the angry Satedan. The high, shaky quality of the Scot's voice had McKay trying to sit up before he remembered he couldn't; even so, the change, someone being on _his_ side, however minutely, was such a relief that he felt he was about ready to break into tears. _Was so busy trying to get through to them, didn't have time to realize how crappy I feel._

Beckett, meanwhile, sounded no better. "Have either of you noticed any strange behavior from Colonel Sheppard today?"

Ronon looked dumbstruck for a moment, before his angry demeanor returned. "You actually _believe _him?" Any hope McKay was starting to feel was shot back down by the man's question. Sure, Beckett might have supported him, but then, Beckett probably didn't even _believe_ him, he was just feeling bad because he thought his best friend was being controlled by an evil alien snake and wouldn't even bother—

"I'm serious," Beckett repeated. "Have you?"

"No—"

"Yes."

All three men stopped and stared at the Athosian woman. Particularly Rodney and Ronon were watching her in disbelief— particularly after what 'he' had done to her earlier. She turned to watch the former, expression carefully neutral. "During our sparring… he outperformed me. And not simply that," she added sharply, seeing that Ronon was about to drop a scathing remark. "He seemed… carefree. At first I thought he was trying to distract himself… but now I am unsure. He was unconcerned a bout the Goa'uld, and Rodney."

A short, rueful laugh from Rodney brought the attention of the room back to him.

"I wish." Seeing their suddenly confused stares, he forced a small smile to try to hide the guilt he was feeling. "If he was, he wouldn't be _possessed_ right about now."

"What do you mean?"

The hysterical, screaming man of just minutes before was gone; the McKay that faced Teyla was dead serious and dead quiet, until at last he said, "Sheppard volunteered himself to it to get it out of me."

"And that sounds eminently more like Colonel Sheppard," Beckett intoned, still watching McKay. The other seemed almost… ashamed. Horrified. _Rodney's really had it worse than me,_ he realized. Not just in injuries, not just in what he'd had to bear witness to, but without a way to test him or any obvious signs that the Goa'uld was in another host…

"So what now?" Ronon asked, bluntly.

"Now… We call security."

"There's still a chance this could be a trick," the larger man muttered.

Beckett frowned, but didn't dispute the point. "I know, but too much doesn't add up." Glancing over, he couldn't see McKay as anything more than himself— _if only I'd felt the same way this morning,_ he thought.

"All right," Ronon replied, evenly, but some suspicion still evident in his expression. Being shot by a team member had ground at his trust, and years of instinctual caution were having a difficult time crawling back into the dark places they had come from.

He lingered for a moment, watching as Teyla went over to Rodney and placed her hand around his in an attempt to comfort the man. Beckett was hanging back now— probably feeling the weight of his 'mistake'.

If there was one.

Ronon's face twisted into a distinct frown, as he backpedaled and waved a hand over the square panel next to the back wall that would open it back up. One quiet, mechanical hiss and he was back out in the main infirmary, moving away from the group for some silence in which to make a radio call.

But more so… What did Beckett have to feel guilty about for what happened to McKay? It was the safe thing to do. He missed something sure, but was that anything more than what the Satedan had done?

He had downed Sheppard. He _had him stunned._ So much for years of instinct and caution.

He had let Sheppard go.

Out of sight of the infirmary staff and the others, Ronon slammed one fist into a wall, a sharp pain shooting up his hand and into his arm. After a moment— and _well_ away from any prying eyes— he leaned his head forward to rest against his arm on the wall, cursing himself in every way he knew how.

Then he activated his radio. "Security."

* * *

"_We need to bring in Colonel Sheppard."_

"…_The Colonel? …You realize what you're saying?"_

"_**Yes**__. D'you realize that every second we're talking, he has more time to get away?"_

There was silence for a moment. Sheppard could guess the sergeant at the other end was debating Ronon's request— demand— and after several seconds, he reluctantly agreed.

He shook his head silently.


	24. Rift

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Saturday, 1 September 2007**

A/N: Tada! First catch-up chapter. Be sure to go back and reread last chapter if you haven't seen the full version yet.

* * *

**Chapter 23: Rift**

* * *

A careless error. Did they really think he wouldn't be keeping an ear out? Sheppard had certainly hoped they'd provide more of a challenge, or be at least entertaining, especially now that it seemed they'd rejoined forces with Rodney.

This did throw a wrench in things, though… Repairs and downed systems through the City, not to mention additional patrols, had made getting to the chair difficult. And so far, that was looking like his only option with _this_ one. Difficult_. Right. More like impossible,_ he thought. Shit, and with security forces out looking for him, that would probably be the _first_ place they'd check and lock down.

_Shit_. This had been his last shot at the chair, too! What he got for taking some host at random— _impressive though you are,_ he reminded the original, who continued to strain against him, _you're a risk, and less than adequate._

It only took a moment's pause, though, for a new idea to pass into mind, and it was joined with a smile. It would be difficult— perhaps take more of his already taxed strength, and would almost surely be damaging…

_But I don't think I intended to keep you anyhow,_ he murmured inwardly.

* * *

"So… s'just you and me now, hm?"

Not that he had a problem with being alone with someone else. After having his body hijacked by a worm-snake-thing that invaded his mind and basically locked him away from the rest of existence. Not at all. No problem…

Honestly, McKay was terrified, but then, he figured he was entitled to that. The fact that it was Carson helped a little. The fact that it was Carson also _hurt_, a _lot_.

"Aye."

"Don't suppose you could…" His eyes drifted down to the straps across his body and around his wrists, and Beckett's expression shifted. _Remorse. Great_. "No. Of course not…" _No one should have to be imprisoned by their best friend. There should be some… cosmic rule or something._ "No problem," he repeated aloud. "I mean, I'm fine with this, really. It's not all… that… confining… cozy, even…"

"I know what you mean," Beckett murmured, feeling guilty as the other man shifted uncomfortably. He moved to get his kit— of course the room wouldn't have been well supplied, it just had to be one crisis after another today— and withdrew something.

McKay watched his friend's back, wishing he could see what the other man was doing— ah yes, helplessness, that was a _wonderfully_ familiar feeling… Then groaned as Beckett turned and he saw the large needle and plastic tubing in his hand. "Oh come on," he griped, sounding almost for a moment like his usual self.

"We had a port in you," Beckett replied, "but you managed to tear it out. If you want any kind of medication, you'll need a new one."

Rodney tilted his head to one side, raising his eyebrows. "Well, my hand is starting to hurt again. And my arm. Which, by the way, has a fairly deep puncture wound in it."

"Yes, well—" Beckett's attention was focused on the needle and port he was holding up in front of his eyes, his reply a bit distracted. "We like to keep the scalpels sharp around here."

"Mm." Rodney seemed somewhat unamused, a rueful smile on his face. "Carson the Ripper."

The doctor's furrowed brow showed that he felt much the same about that sentiment, and McKay supposed he had to give that one to Beckett. After all… the man was being choked to death at the time… He ruminating was rudely interrupted, though, by a rather painful jab in the back of his good hand that made him feel suddenly much less guilty about his wisecrack.

"_Ow!_ Is this how you show sympathy, Carson, 'cause if so, I can't _believe_ I was complaining about how _Keller_ was treating me." He rolled his head so he was facing the ceiling again.

Beckett found it so easy to slip back into the banter. "And how was Keller treating you?"

"She was having one of your med-stooges bandage a head wound."

"Head wound?" _When did that happen?_

"Yeah, but it felt like they were doing it with _shark skin_ or something."

"Oh, well, good thing you got that healed." The second the words were out of his mouth, Beckett was wincing, realizing what he had just said.

McKay's mouth worked for a few seconds, before he was finally able to get sound to come out. "…Again with the sympathy."

"Rodney, I didn't—"

"No I know."

There was a long silence between them, which Beckett eventually used to hook up a new IV bag to McKay's freshly installed port. It got to the point where he had to wonder if he had stung Rodney so badly with that comment that he wasn't going to talk to him any more.

That's why when he all of a sudden asked a question, it blindsided the doctor. "You believe me, right?"

McKay didn't really expect much more than the hesitation Carson showed. He could hope it was the blunt nature of the question, and not the nature of the _answer_ that was throwing the Scot for a loop, but then, he could hope monkeys could fly and that would get him no where but a white jacket in a nice padded room. Which wasn't really too far a cry from what he had now, except with a greater range of movement.

"Yes, Rodney," Carson said at length. "Why ask?"

"Would you say… you know I'm telling the truth? That you can trust me?" Carson's puzzlement deepened… along with his concern.

"I would say that, yes…"

"All right," McKay said, a bit of his old vehemence returning, "So now that we _know_ it's in _Sheppard_, could you let _me_ go?" he said, more a demand than a question.

Beckett sighed before he strode over, a regretful but resigned expression on his face. "Rodney, the actual evidence to that end is circumstantial at best." He then raised his voice as McKay started loudly protesting. "And since someone destroyed the magnetic resonance imager—"

"You can _not_ hold that against me!" McKay declared while pointing an accusing finger at Beckett, best he could with restraints on his wrists, hardly believing what he was hearing.

"No," Beckett agreed, a note of warning coming into his voice, "but without it, we have no way of _proving_ the parasite isn't still in you."

McKay gave him an incredulous look. "Well, _sure_, if you go off of _that_ theory, everyone in _Atlantis_ is suspect—"

"We already know it was in you at one point," Beckett said, cutting McKay off.

McKay gave him a furious glare. "It was in _you_, Carson, and I don't see _you_ strapped to one of these things." Unbidden, a memory he didn't want surfaced, the Goa'uld hissing into his mind, showing his Carson _giving_ him to the parasite.

Beckett turned to give McKay a disapproving look, trying to hide his disturbance. "There was clear evidence that the Goa'uld left me—"

"And jumped into _me_, yeah, _thanks for that_," McKay retorted, his voice rising in pitch. Beads of perspiration broke out across his skin as the screams replayed themselves in his head. He knew it wasn't real, but it rang a dissonant chord with what Sheppard had done, and refused to stay down. "In fact, we have you to thank for all of this, don't we Carson?" Beckett's expression went blank, before becoming one of injured shock, but it didn't stop the incensed scientist. "I mean, you're the one who _brought_ the damned thing to Atlantis—"

"_I know that!_" Beckett suddenly snapped, in a tone more vicious than McKay had ever heard the otherwise gentle man ever utter. Taken aback, McKay spluttered into silence, while Beckett fixed him with an angry stare, eyes suspiciously bright. "You think I don't understand what's happened here? You think I don't feel responsible?" As Beckett spoke, he began to gather up equipment. His movements were tense and hostile, snatching tools and slamming lids; even better, he was now refusing to look at McKay. "Do you think, for an instant, that I have forgotten how that thing used me?"

"Oh, how it used _you?_" Rodney seemed to have found his tongue again, and it was sharper than before; total incredulity. "What did it do in _you?!_ You didn't have to watch the City almost being destroyed! You didn't try to kill any of your friends!" By now, McKay was practically screaming again, though his voice was going seriously hoarse, giving his distress an almost tortured sound. "You experienced _nothing_. _Nothing!!_"

"_Perhaps!_ But what am I supposed to do, sit around and pity myself all day? That doesn't help any one," he said, snapping his kit shut and fixing McKay with another glare. "Least of all Colonel Sheppard." And with that, he stormed from the room.

Left speechless and alone and incensed, McKay watched the doorway for a few seconds longer, his mouth agape. Eventually, he let his gaze fall to the floor, thinking over what he had just witnessed.

_Rodney, you are an __**idiot**_, he thought to himself. A brilliant idiot, sure, probably _the_ most— but an idiot nonetheless. The only person in the entire city who believed he wasn't a snake-possessed egomaniac— and probably the only one in this galaxy who knew just what he was feeling, what kind of tumult and shock he was dealing with— probably now hated his guts. _Way to go on that one!_

But _come on!_ Seriously, he had a right to be angry, _look at what he was dealing with!_ Beckett couldn't tell him he'd had to put up with this kind of crap. God, this _so_ wasn't fair!

Making a quiet noise of distress, McKay leaned back against the headrest, before wincing and jerking forward immediately after as pain flared up in the back of his neck. However, realizing that he didn't have much of an option, McKay sighed and leaned back again, his face contorted in the pain that came as he rested against the gash the Goa'uld had left.

_God __**damn **__it,_ he thought. Even with that snake out of his head, it just wouldn't leave him alone, would it? No, of course, not, that wouldn't fit with the universe's grand scheme of 'torture Rodney McKay in every conceivable way in as short a time as possible'. _Haven't had my body stolen by evil aliens before, so check __**that**__ one off the list._

He'd shared his body with another consciousness before, sure, even lost control if it a few times. And at first, he thought he could take control again, just like before… _I wonder if I should say 'It's nice to be wrong sometimes' but besides being cliché it really just isn't._ McKay suddenly felt like he should apologize to Lieutenant Cadman for no apparent reason… no good reason anyhow, honestly, there wasn't really any reason to apologize if he thought about it, it was _his_ body in the first place which actually brought him back to the parasite and everything _that_ entailed, didn't it…

Another sigh. This was great. Just… great. Unconsciously, Rodney rubbed the bandaging on his right hand against the bed rail, and miserable, wondered what was worse. The torture the thing had imposed on him _inside_ his head… or the shit it had left him to deal with now that it was gone.


	25. Cut and Run

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Monday, 3 September 2007**

* * *

**Chapter 24: Cut and Run**

* * *

About the first thing John Sheppard noticed as he woke up was that he was lying face down on a cold floor in the middle of a deserted hallway.

And the second was that he couldn't exactly remember falling _asleep_ face down on a cold floor in the middle of a deserted hallway.

So what the hell he was doing there, he hadn't a clue. All the same, Sheppard decided now was as good a time as any to pick himself up; he was a little alarmed though when he started reeling to the side when he tried to take his feet.

"Okay, that's… not good," he muttered, catching himself on the wall. _What the heck happened?_

All right, last thing he remembered… last thing… _What's the last thing you remember? ...I forget,_ he couldn't help but think, before grimacing a moment later— wow, that _was_ cheesy. Hey, if it was to annoy Rodney, it was one thing, but right now when he couldn't remember what was going on… not the time.

Sheppard stabbed at his radio with one finger. Then, started rubbing the sore spot— which was notably devoid of a radio. Wincing a bit, the colonel began running over the situation in his head.

Alone. In Atlantis, but not really sure where. No way of communicating with anyone.

_And my head is starting to throb,_ he added— maybe that was why he couldn't really focus on anything, including what was going on. In fact, when he thought about it, the side of his skull above his left ear was really starting to _hurt_— someone had to have knocked him around a good bit.

He couldn't exactly _remember_ getting hit over the head by anyone or thing, but now that he thought about it, it sounded about right. In fact, as he thought about the last… hour? Few hours, more? Time didn't seem to be working right for him either— _something_ was coming to him, it was just all… _jumbled_. Like someone had taken everything Sheppard was thinking, tossed it in a blender and hit purée.

Like a spark of electricity— and a stab of pain that actually seemed to fit that description nicely— the colonel remembered a Goa'uld… Evil, slimy, parasitic thing, screwing with him and… and the rest of the City and…

"_Nnh_." With his face screwed up again, Sheppard rested his head against the wall he was leaning on. It was there, he knew it was, but trying to sort it all out was starting to seem kind've needle-in-a-haystack-ish.

_Kay… this is getting me nowhere… If I'm not already there,_ he added, giving a look to his surroundings.

"Let's find somewhere else to be," Sheppard muttered to himself.

Carefully, he pushed himself away from the wall. It didn't take too long to get back into stride, and all that seemed to be bothering him was his head. Whenever he tried to pull things together, a sharp pain like someone sticking a pin in his brain quickly dissuaded that behavior. _Okay. Save 'trying to figure this out' for Carson._

Great. Retrograde amnesia and a migraine.

It took a surprisingly short time to reach the City proper, once Sheppard got going… and realized he was going in the wrong direction, at first. Once he got turned around, though, it was all good. In fact, it only took a few minutes to find people, and Sheppard found himself eager to contact his team.

A woman wearing the blue paneled jacket indicative of a scientist was walking down one side passage; calling out a short 'Hey!' to grab her attention, Sheppard jogged the extra few steps to get catch up. The way she started, he felt slightly surprised.

She blinked, straightening her glasses. "Colonel Sheppard?"

"Yep." He flashed an unconvincing smile, raising one hand to rub at the side of his head, where his headache was starting to worsen.

"Uh…I'm… I'm sorry, Ronon was just looking for you."

"Yeah? Good." Though, he had to wonder if it actually was, with the way she said it… "I'm looking for him too… I think. Hey, can I… borrow…" Sheppard trailed off, dropping his hand, noticing the woman looking past him, and spun to see the man in question. "Ronon!" Sheppard felt an incredible sense of relief at seeing his teammate. "I was looking for you… Uh, Ronon?"

That relief was starting to wear off pretty quickly, actually, as the Satedan didn't reply, only narrowing his eyes and starting to stride towards the colonel. Sheppard didn't understand what was going on, but he was getting a bad vibe off of all of this; a bit anxiously, he began to backpedal.

"You know what? I think I changed my mind. I was looking for Zelenka, not you." His eyes darted down to the gun at Ronon's hip, and back up to the man's eyes.

It seemed that was enough to set Ronon off. His hand hooked downwards, catching the blaster and pulling it free in about the time it took Sheppard to realize he was about to get shot. Diving to the side, the colonel could feel the electric crackle across his skin, the hair standing on end with static, as the energy pulse missed him by inches.

He slammed hard into the wall, pushing himself away from it in the other direction in time to dodge a second shot— and this time, around a corner.

Sheppard took off running, going straight through a group of surprised scientists who flung themselves to either side of the hall, crying out in alarm as he pushed past them.

The very next corner he saw, he threw himself around again as yet another blast of orange seared past him. Breathing hard already— partly from exertion, partly from a sense of panic he could only assume came from being shot at by his own _team mate_— Sheppard knew his time was limited.

If he got caught in a straightaway, he would be downed in a heartbeat— not only could Ronon outrun him, but the second Ronon got a clear shot—

Yet again, Sheppard found himself dodging around a corner— this time bowling straight into an unlucky scientist— and this time, a searing pain caught him just above his right elbow.

Biting back some colorful words, Sheppard staggered a few steps, ignoring the man he'd just plowed over. The guy's incensed tone caught the attention of other nearby people, but everything they were saying just kind of blurred together. The colonel, meanwhile, was grasping at straws, searching for any options that might slow Ronon down. _Door… this corridor has a door…_

A quick mental command later, that door was sliding shut behind him, and after a second, Sheppard knew it had locked. Brushing past the incredulous looks people were giving him, the man ducked into a side passage.

To his dismay, he found himself in a science lab— after a moment to take it in, though, he breathed a sigh of relief. It had another exit.

Silently ordering Atlantis to lock the door he had come through, Sheppard took a moment for himself— all of a sudden how much he needed it. When he went to lean against one of the work tables with his right arm, it gave out completely, and he went crashing to the floor.

"_Damn_ it!" Sheppard stood slowly up… noticing that his right arm barely had any feeling left in it. He swore again, realizing that the numbness was starting to spread into his shoulder and side.

There was no way he could keep this up. Hell, even if he could get a hold of a radio or borrow someone's, there was no guarantee he could get this all sorted out before Ronon caught up and shot him. Or that even if it was sorted out, Ronon wouldn't shoot him anyways. _Control Room's my best bet…_

Expression becoming a distinct frown, Sheppard leaned against the workbench again, this time sure to use his good arm. Seemed like every option ended up in him getting shot. Again.

_Again?_ he thought, catching himself.

A hissing sound snapped Sheppard out of it before he could figure that out, and he ducked behind the workbench he had been leaning on. _How did he know where I was? Hell, how does he keep getting the doors open?_

Of course, he hadn't been standing next to the other door. No, that would have been _smart_. It was a good twelve feet behind him— trying to hold his breath, Sheppard noticed he couldn't hear Ronon. That didn't comfort him.

The longer he waited…

Sheppard whispered one of his favorite cuss words, before scrambled— then _dove_ for the door, praying it would open at his command.

Seeing as he hit the floor instead of the door panel, he had to assume it did. Hastily, he thought, _closed and locked_, and the door _whooshed_ shut in time to receive the brunt of a stunning blast. Even as the colonel was picking himself up, he heard Ronon hit the door, and started back a half step.

If the last few doors were any indication, this one wouldn't stay shut long. Not wanting to be around when it opened, Sheppard spun to the side, trying to ignore the stitch in his side.

The next thing he knew, his whole body seized up, wracked with an intense pain he had hoped never to feel again. Barely able to let out a choked groan, Sheppard was unconscious before he hit the floor.

* * *

Ronon paused at the flash of blue light beyond the lab doors, not even taking notice as the tech in the Control Room radioed him to say he had finally got the door unlocked; as the panel slid into the wall, however, he stepped out to find already Sheppard laying in a heap on the floor.

"Good shooting," he commented flatly, looking up to see Teyla holding the long Wraith stunner at her side, approaching silently.

The grim look on the woman's face sufficed for a reply.

Doing what he should have done the first time, Ronon kneeled and rolled Sheppard from his side to his stomach.

After a moment's pause, he heard Teyla radioing Beckett, but didn't honestly pay attention. There, the whole time… An unmistakable white line, a distortion along the back of Sheppard's neck. Gritting his teeth so hard it hurt, Ronon gently turned his friend's body back onto his back.

At least now he understood what had been going through that thick skull of Sheppard's.

* * *

For its part, it had to smile, even if privately. They had him.

You left him alive. He'll tell them, they'll know.

So optimistic, the Goa'uld replied. He cannot tell what he cannot make sense of… The other had no words this time; the parasite smirked, but quickly masked it back into a small smile. Besides… why kill him? Your species has already proven eager to participate in a witch-hunt… He couldn't help but let his smile grow at the immense satisfaction he gained from the next few words. Far be it from me to deny them.


	26. Ethics

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Tuesday, 4 September 2007**

* * *

**Chapter 25: Ethics**

* * *

Weir strode into the infirmary, wondering what was so urgent that Beckett needed her there immediately.

However, all other worries were cast aside as she crossed paths with one Rodney McKay, and froze in place. He went by her a few steps, before pausing and doing a double take. Meanwhile, Weir continued to stare at him in apprehension, prompting him to try and start explaining. She cut him off, however; "Carson?" she called, a note of alarm in her voice.

"Elizabeth?" he replied, his voice equally filled with concern. However, as the physician ducked out of his office, he tilted his head back in appreciation of what was going on. "You don't have to worry," he assured her, striding towards the front of the room.

Turning her head towards him, but not taking her eyes off of McKay, who was beginning to look unnerved at her continued suspicion. "How can you be sure of that?"

"Oh, now that is _completely_ unfair," McKay said, unable to take it any longer. "You let _Carson_ off the hook—"

"Because we had proof that the Goa'uld was in someone else," Weir reminded him, before looking at Beckett incredulously.

"Aye," Beckett said softly, the look on his face telling her that something wasn't right.

Her breath caught in her throat. "No…"

Even McKay began to shift uncomfortably, his eyes falling to the floor. Beckett gestured towards a bed where Sheppard was laying. "You need to see this."

The three of them clustered around the unconscious form, and Weir let her eyes run over it, scrutinizing him closely, looking for some clue. Beckett, however, was a step ahead of her.

"I've been postulating that the creature is weakening every time it takes a new host."

Weir's eyebrows shot up appreciatively. "You think so?"

McKay began gesturing with his hands, going over the symptoms he recalled— apparently, Beckett had gone over this with him. "Yes, yes, uh, less superhuman strength, shorter time outside a host, lessened ability to suppress said host—"

"And an inability to heal injuries properly," Weir filled in.

Beckett nodded an affirmation. "That's right. It's also part of the reason I thought it could still be in Rodney…" The woman saw an uneasy glance exchanged between the two, and wondered what had happened that she was missing. "Now in the case of the colonel—"

"No, no no no, wait," McKay interrupted, his brow furrowed in thought. "Sheppard was stopped with a Wraith stunner, he shouldn't _have_ any injuries."

"Not from that," Beckett corrected, his voice seeming oddly tight. "This," he said, pulling the colonel's head slightly forward and to the side, enough to reveal a still-pink scar. He let the other two process it for a few seconds, while he lowered the colonel's head back to the pillow gently. He could see both visibly pale; Weir was finally coming to the same conclusion— that Sheppard had undeniably played host to the Goa'uld.

For Rodney, though, it was hardly a surprise. "Ronon and Teyla said he didn't give any sign he was, um…"

Weir looked over to McKay. The man trailed off, looking a little lost, and she placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to will some comfort to the man. "It may already be in someone else," she suggested.

He tried to smile in gratitude, but the weight of what was being presented… God, what did he have to smile about? This was his fault!

A soft cough from Beckett interrupted McKay's thoughts. Having reclaimed his audience's attention, he continued, though he now seemed to be speaking almost reluctantly. "Now, it still seems to have the capacity to deal with injuries while it's _in_ the body… It's when it leaves that things get interesting." Beckett glanced at the other two, who nodded, despite their concern. Himself, he had to swallow hard and force himself to continue. "The entry and exit wound the Goa'uld left on me healed relatively quickly, suggesting that as it departs it leaves behind some kind of chemical or enzyme that speeds the process. Rodney's, on the other hand," he said, gesturing to the other man, "were still bleeding by the time we reached him."

"Yeah," McKay cut in again, brandishing his bandaged arm, "and they haven't completely stopped, by the way."

Beckett ignored McKay's complaints for the time being which made the man huff irritably; even so, Rodney couldn't completely conceal the worry he was feeling. And Beckett sighed, knowing he was about to make it that much worse.

"Sheppard would be the parasite's fourth host— at _least_. There's no possible way it could have healed the wound to this extent unless—"

"Of course," McKay said quietly as he realized where Beckett was going with this. He turned to look at the doctor, wide-eyed, for once wanting nothing more than to be completely wrong, only to see Beckett staring grimly back at him. "It's still _in him_."

Weir had recoiled a half step; she entirely missed the exchange between the two men as she came to the same inescapable conclusion Rodney had— and the abhorred look on her face proved it. She hesitated a moment longer, watching the colonel's still form before tapping the radio at her ear. "I need a security team to the infirmary."

Beckett held up his hands to placate her. "Relax, Elizabeth, I've got him sedated."

"Yeah, but for how long?" McKay asked, his voice bordering on shrill and expression incredulous. Beckett gave him a long look, but Elizabeth held one hand up to halt any reproach.

"I'm afraid I have to agree with Rodney," she said, gently. "It's only a matter of time before the sedative wears off, and we have no idea when that may be. Besides," she added, forestalling a protest from Beckett; "We can't keep him permanently sedated. Eventually we're going to have to talk to the Goa'uld if we're going to convince it to leave him." She cast another pensive look at Sheppard.

For a moment, there was a silence between them. "So," McKay said, strangely quiet, "Should we move him back to the, uh…" He gestured back towards the back room where he himself had so recently been imprisoned. It was the closest bed with restraints on it.

Beckett followed McKay's gaze, before shaking his head slowly. "I'd prefer to not keep him in the infirmary, since he has no other injuries that need tending." Weir's scrutinizing gaze fell on him, and he glanced away. It was a valid reason and she knew it. His personal apprehension had nothing to do with it. _Nothing at all,_ he whispered in his mind.

A strange, tense silence fell over them. "So what happens to Sheppard now?" McKay's voice was tight, and Beckett gave him a sympathetic— and apologetic— look.

"Well, we've contained the parasite. I suppose it's safe to contact the SGC now; no doubt they'll want to deal with it on Earth," Beckett replied, after Weir gave no answer. In fact, she seemed startled at Beckett's suggestion.

"Earth? Couldn't they do it here?" she asked, an unintended note of rebellion leaking into her voice.

Despite his misgivings, the doctor could sympathize; looking at McKay, he could see a similar expression on his face. The possibility of letting their teammate into someone else's hands in such a state— "They _are_ the ones with the equipment and experience in these matters," he admitted. It was hard to openly say it though; he might as well yell, _I can't take care of the people I'm responsible for, the people I care for!_ There were few things harder to swallow than that for a physician. All the same…

It seemed to bring no ease McKay or Weir, the latter of which he could tell was uncertain of the next move she should make. It was a strange thing to watch, but both men could understand.

"We don't have to call the SGC," McKay started without warning. "Look at how many scientists we have here, you think we can't come up with a solution? You don't have to cart him off through the 'Gate," he added, trying to keep the anger from rising into his voice; "Not without even trying!"

As he finished those words, without warning, a security force led by Major Lorne stormed in, and Weir hastily held up a hand to slow them. "Ma'am?" Lorne asked, striding over to where the three senior personnel stood, eyeing McKay for a second longer than the others. Their expressions, and his unconscious CO brought him to a halt. "Colonel Sheppard's not—"

"I'm afraid so," Weir said, loud enough for the rest of the security detachment to hear. She turned to Beckett; "Carson?" When he didn't respond, she pressed further for a decision. "I'm deferring to you on this one."

The doctor hesitated; he didn't know what to do in this situation any more than she did. Inwardly, he kicked himself. He was being weak-willed and indecisive and he _hated it._ _It's under control… there's nothing to fear…_ Yet every time he looked at Sheppard, he found the first thing that came to his mind wasn't concern for his teammate, but revulsion. _I can't keep doing this… I'm still the Chief Medical Officer. I'm still responsible for taking care of them._ He took a deep breath, mulling it over before exhaling loudly. "All right." He gestured to Lorne and his team to move closer. "We'll move him to a prison ce—"

"Carson?" McKay suddenly called out, his voice an octave higher than usual. Both he and Weir had backed away from Sheppard. A glance down at the aforementioned revealed that he was starting to come to, as he shifted in place. Only Beckett crying "Wait!" stopped the security team from jumping on the man. "Just restrain him where he is. He'll be easier to transport on the gurney."

As the three civilians moved back to let the military do their work, Weir murmured to Beckett, "Is that going to hold him?" They watched people pull out handcuffs, securing each of the colonel's limbs to the rails, for lack of anything else. Beckett offered no answer— he had none to give.

None too soon, as Sheppard began to actually wake. "Mm… wh…where?" he slurred. "Carson?" he then said, sounding more lucid. The CMO froze, unable to tear his eyes off of the colonel. The security team backed off a step, bringing their weapons to bear on him; the movement caught his attention and his eyes snapped wide open. "What the hell?"

Beckett snapped out of it, glancing to Weir, who was looking on with a pained expression as Sheppard tried to push himself up and realized he couldn't. None of this sat well with the doctor, but he saw little alternative. The same seemed to be true of Weir, who turned her head, unable to watch.

"What's going on," Sheppard demanded, his voice hoarse, curling upwards, only to have one of the guards push him back down. He twisted away, his face contorted in anger. "Get off of me!" Another stepped forward to assist the first, and Sheppard began to struggle in earnest. It was then that he took notice of Beckett, Weir, and McKay. "Carson!" he called again. "Elizabeth, Rodney— _what's going on?!_" Clenching her jaw, Weir walked to the opposite side of the room. Sheppard's eyes went wide with disbelief. "_Elizabeth_!" As yet another set of hands tried to push him down, he slammed his body to the side, catching the marine with a headbutt and breaking the young man's nose. He staggered back, but the other three practically jumped on top of Sheppard to keep him from lashing out again.

Deciding this had gone too far, Beckett strode to a nearby cabinet, pulling out a needle and vial, drawing some up— trying to ignore the tremble in his hand. McKay, who had been staring in horror, took a moment to notice what Beckett was up to. When he did, he stepped between the man and the now screaming colonel. "What are you doing? Elizabeth said—"

"I know what Elizabeth said," Beckett said, giving McKay a reprimanding look. "It'll only keep him out for maybe twenty minutes. Just long enough to move him," he muttered. Without waiting for McKay to move, Beckett walked around him and over to Sheppard. "Hold him still," he declared, holding up the hypodermic needle and tapping the air bubbles to the top.

The shock of seeing someone whom he thought would _help_ him trying to sedate him froze Sheppard long enough for the four guards to get a good enough hold on him that they were able to keep him pinned as Beckett put the needle to his arm. "Carson, what are you doing?" He tried to squirm away, but Beckett had already gotten it in. He jerked his arm, eliciting a sharp pain in the crook of his elbow.

"Hold still," Beckett repeated, voice cracking the tiniest bit.

He glanced back up to see Sheppard, no longer thrashing around, but still resisting. Slowly, his tensed muscles began to relax, and the security detachment eased off of him; all the while, though, he held Beckett's eyes with his own, silently questioning _why_? Beckett continued to watch, feeling suddenly helpless, until the other man's eyelids had fluttered shut and his breathing slowed. Then, he let his gaze fall to the floor. _The parasite is trying to trick us into thinking it's gone._ Even when he repeated it silently, time after time, it didn't make him feel any better.

He had thought he would gain satisfaction from being in control of the situation. Instead, Beckett just felt like he had stabbed Sheppard in the back.

From where he was standing, McKay was experiencing a similar dejection. Not certain what to do, he turned, looking around the infirmary, looking anywhere but at his friend. It upset him, not only to see Sheppard like he was, but to think that… _thing_… was in his head. It was also an unnerving reminder of what he himself had gone through. What was it now doing, what horrible things had it conjured up in some living nightmare for its latest victim?

His eyes then fell on Dr. Weir, still standing apart from the commotion, facing away from everything that had just happened. As he watched, she bowed her head, rubbing at her temple. Unsure of what he could say, but still feeling like he should say _something_… McKay walked over, gently placing one hand on her shoulder. She started at first, twisting to see who it was, but then gave him a thankful look.

"He'll be alright, Elizabeth."

She held his stare for a long moment, before bringing up her own hand and resting it on top of his, turning back towards the infirmary exit. Not wanting to pull his hand away, McKay instead stepped closer, coming up beside her— in time to see a small, strange smile on her face.

"Elizabeth?" he asked, completely baffled at her expression. She turned towards him, and he saw a sadness in her eyes, though the smile didn't disappear.

"I'm trying to make myself think positive, Rodney," she said by way of explanation.

"How's that working for you?" Through the sarcasm, there was a little… what, hope?

Her smile took a more rueful turn. "Not that great."

"Yeah well…" He mumbled under his breath, "I fail to see what about this could _possibly_ be construed as positive…"

Elizabeth paused before responding. "We've finally isolated the parasite. We've stopped it from jumping between hosts. And," she added, a bit more uneasiness to her words, "maybe it's for the best that we caught it in John."

McKay gave her a disconcerted look, unconsciously pulling away from her. "What?"

Despite being the one who said it, Weir looked like she was struggling to accept it herself. "I know it sounds terrible, but… John is strong. _If_ that thing really is getting weaker, well," she said, getting worked up; "He _might_ just have a chance of _beating_ it," she added, now staring into McKay's eyes again, imploring him to agree with her. He licked his lips, suddenly aware of how dry they were, and tried to say something, but… Weir watched him, eventually realizing that he wouldn't answer and nodded, resigned.

The sudden clatter of the gurney being wheeled past distracted the two for the moment, They watched it disappear with two marines and Beckett around the left hand corner.

"…He would rather take this burden on himself, than put it on anyone else," Weir said, not taking her eyes off of the opening that her coworker and friend had just been taken through. "I know he would. He did that for you, Rodney." And then, she too departed, turning right as she left the infirmary, opting for a longer route that meant she had no chance of running into that gurney again.

"…Yeah," McKay said to himself with a sigh. "I know." Glancing towards the beds, where a nurse and Lorne were seeing to the marine with the broken nose, and then towards the exit, McKay started in that direction. He hesitated for a second at the doorway, before turning left.


	27. Vis à vis

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Tuesday, 4 September 2007**

A/N: Tada! Bonus chapter! Travel sized for your convenience!

…Okay, actually, this just catches me up to where I should be. For those of you wondering, why so short? I was going to make it so the last one and this one were more equal in size, but then I kinda went, _duh, they're getting posted on the same day, does it matter?_ ;) Anywho, along with last chapter, this is probably one of my favorites; so, enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 26: Vis-à-vis **

* * *

_The shock of seeing someone whom he thought would help him trying to sedate him froze Sheppard long enough for the four guards to get a good enough hold on him that they were able to keep him pinned as Beckett put the needle to his arm. "Carson, what are you doing?" He tried to squirm away, but Beckett had already gotten it in. He jerked his arm, eliciting a sharp pain in the crook of his elbow. _

"_Hold still," Beckett repeated, voice cracking the tiniest bit. _

_He glanced back up to see Sheppard, no longer thrashing around, but still resisting. Slowly, his tensed muscles began to relax, and the security detachment eased off of him; all the while, though, he held Beckett's eyes with his own, silently questioning why? Beckett continued to watch, feeling suddenly helpless, until the other man's eyelids had fluttered shut and his breathing slowed._

* * *

When Sheppard came to again, he found himself blinking against harsh overhead lights— and not like in the infirmary, either. It only took about a minute for him to realize that he was on a cold, hard floor— déjà vu. This time, though, there were… _bars_… around him.

Groaning in pain, he rolled over onto his stomach, before pushing himself up.

_Yeah… that was a bad idea,_ he quickly decided, fighting a rush of nausea, and John flopped to the side, catching himself on his elbows only to slide back to the floor.

"Sheppard?" For a second, the colonel continued staring at the ceiling, before he tilted his head forward.

"McKay?"

He honestly couldn't make the form out, behind the sharp slats of the Lantean prison cell and with the glare from the overhead lights. But, he couldn't imagine who else it was. He thought he saw the person give a little wave, but no response.

"I'm in jail." It wasn't so much a question, but Sheppard certainly was wondering about it. He laid his head back down, tucking his hands behind his head and bending his knees so he was in a more comfortable position.

"Mm. Yes. Funny story behind that really," McKay started, sounding completely unconvincing. Sheppard closed his eyes.

"Must have been one hell of a party."

"Ahh…" Sheppard could just imagine the scientist fishing for something to say, probably with his mouth hanging open.

"Can it, Rodney," he said, cutting McKay off. "I remember what happened," he added, a certain weary, resignation in his words.

McKay was shocked into silence. From where he was standing, he could see Sheppard perfectly. The man hadn't moved since he had laid back down— and perhaps more unnerving, he hadn't looked at McKay. "You do?"

There was a silence for a few long seconds. Then; "I can still feel the cuff marks around my wrists." McKay glanced nervously at the colonel, and realized that his eyes were open now— more specifically, he was staring at him, completely emotionless. Measuring his response. McKay turned away, not wanting to think about the Goa'uld that was watching from behind those eyes. He heard a soft snort from behind him, and when he turned back, the colonel was contemplating the ceiling again.

The scientist got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Well, you've got to understand—"

"_Yes_, McKay, I need to understand. So why don't you help me out here?" Sheppard asked, amicably.

The physicist didn't miss the use of his last name, and gritted his teeth. _I am not going to let you make me feel guilty for trying to help John…__You want to play hardball? I can do that too._ Without further hesitation, he launched into story telling mode— relating everything Beckett had told him, seeing Sheppard sit up and slowly pale and getting a certain measure of enjoyment from it. As he came to the part about the healed scar, he paused to watch him lean his head forward and rub one hand down the back of his neck. McKay could just envision the parasite, realizing it had made a mistake. He was hoping it really was losing its grip on the colonel… and that Sheppard was hearing this.

"So… caught you," he finished, watching the colonel closely.

Sheppard rubbed one hand over his face, not replying at first. "…You know, I mostly pretend I don't know what you're talking about because I wasn't paying attention the first time and I want you to repeat it. But I can honestly say," he added, grunting as he sat up, "that I don't have a god damned clue what's going on here." He stared at McKay through the bars, once again without emotion. "You really think I'm the Goa'uld?"

McKay stared back, this time refusing to be fazed. "Well, do you have some way of proving us wrong?"

At first, it appeared as though the man hadn't heard him, or was ignoring him. He had actually discovered the food and water left for him, and was busy unscrewing the bottle cap. He took one huge swig, wiped at his mouth… his eyes never quite meeting McKay's. At one point he shifted so he was leaning up against the wall. Finally; "No. I don't." And that was it.

"…Look," McKay said, to assuage some of the unavoidable guilt. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"Yeah? Me too," Sheppard said, in a not-quite-sincere tone of voice.

"Rodney!" A third voice broke in, soon revealed to belong to one Carson Beckett, who stuck his head in through the ajar outer door. "We are _trying_ to establish containment, and it doesn't work if you leave the door open."

"Carson," Sheppard said, his voice friendly but carrying a hint of something dangerous to it. Looking like a deer caught in a pair of headlights, Beckett glanced over at the colonel, who was leaning easily against one of the pillars in the cell, one leg folded up close to his chest. "Bring any more pain meds? Sedatives?"

"No," Beckett said, looking slightly put out. "Rodney, come on," he said, nodding towards the hall. McKay started to head in that direction, moving past Beckett.

"That's a shame," Sheppard called out, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, while his hands worked at the water bottle again. He looked, for all intents and purposes, like he was relaxing on a beach instead of being held prisoner. "My throat's killing me, y'know? So's my head."

"Probably screamed yourself hoarse," Beckett said, reproaching him, just as he would do so normally. It was so easy to forget, he thought, catching himself. "And I don't feel I have to elaborate about your head."

Sheppard took a long while to answer, leaving Beckett to wonder if he was ignoring him. Then; "S'a pity, though, about the sedatives. You know how much I love being unconscious." He tossed a glance over at the doctor, who swallowed, knowing the man hadn't forgotten.

"Yes, well, _that's_ under Dr. Weir's express order," Beckett informed him.

He shook his head, but offered no further reply. Instead, he just watched out of the corner of his eyes as the two men disappeared from sight, closing the door and sealing him in. When he was alone, he turned to look, even though he knew it was pointless. Going back to staring off into, he downed the rest of the water in one swig, before throwing the empty bottle across the cell.

Closing his eyes and leaning his head back one more time, he exhaled forcefully. _How the hell did this happen?_


	28. Tempest

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Wednesday, 5 September 2007**

* * *

**Chapter 27: Tempest**

* * *

_"…Look," McKay said, to assuage some of the unavoidable guilt. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."_

_"Yeah? Me too," Sheppard said, in a not-quite-sincere tone of voice._

_"Rodney!" A third voice broke in, soon revealed to belong to one Carson Beckett, who stuck his head in through the ajar outer door. "We are trying to establish containment, and it doesn't work if you leave the door open."_

_"Carson," Sheppard said, his voice friendly but carrying a hint of something dangerous to it. Beckett glanced over at the colonel, who was leaning easily against one of the pillars in the cell. "Bring any more pain meds? Sedatives?"_

_"No," Beckett said, looking slightly put out. "Rodney, come on," he said, nodding towards the hall. McKay started to head in that direction, moving past Beckett._

_Sheppard shook his head, but offered no further reply. Instead, he just watched as the two men disappeared from sight, closing the door and sealing him in.  
_

_Closing his eyes and leaning his head back one more time, he exhaled forcefully. How the hell did this happen? _

* * *

_It was in me, yes…_

Sheppard sat cross legged on the floor of his little prison cell, trying to contemplate everything Rodney had told him. Being told that he had been possessed by a Goa'uld didn't seem so ridiculous as it should have— in fact, Sheppard could understand it, it made sense, it seemed to _fit_. And maybe that scared him more than the prospect of actually being taken by one.

Now when he thought of it, he could remember the voice inside his head, without the splitting headache. He had found it in Rodney, then offered himself up. Well, he'd thought he was actually saving something, then.

Sighing, John rubbed at his eyes. He knew he shouldn't act like this, or be so hard on them. They were taking the safe route— if they couldn't be sure it was in him or not, they needed to keep him confined.

All the same, this was playing havoc with his head. And what was he supposed to do, ask for Heightmeyer?

That was the problem though, he kind've _did_ want to talk to her. Except he didn't want to be psychoanalyzed for traces of evil galaxy ruling parasite, he— for once— wanted to be psychoanalyzed _normally_.

All right, that just sounded stupid. No one honestly wanted to sit through a session with a shrink. 'Cept maybe Rodney, but then, he'd known the guy was a headcase _long_ ago.

_Rodney— …well, he must be doing just fine,_ he thought derisively. For a moment, a surge of memory, sorting itself back into the proper place— and a knife going straight through his friend's hand— made him feel sick and worry about McKay. But McKay was fine.

After all, he'd been in good enough condition to stand idly by and let him get thrown in _here_, hadn't he? His friends had been running a good tally today— Carson with the sedatives— Elizabeth and Rodney just for doing nothing. Oh, not to mention being chased through the hallways of Atlantis and shot.

All of that suddenly disappeared from his mind as a deep hiss sounded. Looking for the source, his eyes soon caught the movement of the door, and he tensed up at the bulky form that took up the doorway.

"Ronon," masking anger with an obviously fake smile. "I was just thinking about you."

The look on Ronon's face was no less hostile. Where Beckett and McKay had been anxious and uneasy, Ronon wore open hate. John supposed he should be flattered— after all, all of _this_ was supposedly on his own behalf. It didn't make imprisonment any more inviting.

Personally, he wasn't ready to rule out that there were a few screws loose in everyone's heads… Okay, that wasn't true. They were telling him the truth and he knew it. He just didn't want to admit it.

"Hey, Ronon," Sheppard started when the other man said nothing— and he sounded almost friendly; "I've got a question for you."

The Satedan let out a grunt, which Sheppard figured meant he should go ahead.

"Why'd you chase me down, earlier?"

"Why'd you run?"

"…You were _chasing_ me."

"Wouldn't have chased you if you hadn't run."

"No," Sheppard agreed. "You'd have shot me. Not that you didn't manage that one anyways," he added, almost petulantly. He could have kicked himself— he sounded pathetic, didn't he?

Ronon shifted where he was, leaning up against the side of the doorway. "That wasn't me."

Sheppard paused, not expecting what Ronon had said— "It… wasn't?"

"No." Whatever hope might have been building, Ronon effectively shot down, as he added, "It was Teyla."

There was a long silence after that; Sheppard's despondency was growing, beneath that plastered on smile. "Teyla," he repeated, at length. "I just don't have any friends today, do I?"

For a moment, something flickered across Ronon's expression— guilt? regret?— but just as quickly was gone, leaving Sheppard to wonder if he'd imagined it. "No," he said flatly, and a moment later, turned to go.

…_Okay, so what was that all about?_ Even running the question over in his mind, over and over, John couldn't find an answer. He guessed Ronon had gotten whatever it was he had come here for.

_About now, I don't really give a damn. _And Sheppard was starting to wish he'd never taken this bullet for McKay… or for any of them.

* * *

The infirmary was mostly empty by now— it was the middle of the night. Beckett could feel fatigue wearing on the edges of his consciousness, but he kept moving around, making himself busy. Even so, he wasn't distracting himself from what was really on his mind. "I can't stand seeing him like that," Beckett finally said, flopping down in a chair next to an empty bed.

McKay glanced up from his computer, perched on his lap where he was sitting nearby. He hesitated for a moment. "…Sheppard would want us to do this."

The disbelieving look from Beckett was more than enough to stop that line of thought. The words were hollow, and they both knew it.

"Ye-eah, okay… maybe not," he said under his breath, going back to his work— not going terribly fast, since he was only using his left hand. Beckett watched him for a few seconds before turning back to his own. Then McKay burst out again; "What are we _supposed_ to do?"

"Rodney."

"Come _on_, Carson," McKay insisted, "He keeps saying he has no idea what we're talking about, what if we never get the thing to admit that it's in him—" By now, he was starting to sound hysterical. "If it doesn't, we'll never be able to bargain with it. What if we never get it out?"

"_Rodney!_" The scientist started at the vehemence of Beckett's rebuke. "Couldn't you do something more useful than bawl your bloody eyes out?" he asked, somewhat coolly, before getting to his feet again, too restless to stay idle. "Like maybe work on something to help the colonel?" He glanced over at McKay, who seemed to huff, before returning his laptop yet again. "By the way, what _are_ you working on?"

McKay looked up again, this time looking annoyed. "I am working on the systems I disabled earlier, or at least I _would_ be if someone would quit asking me _questions_."

Beckett regarded the man with scarcely concealed amusement. "All right, just one more then," he said, coming to stand in front of McKay.

The aforementioned glared daggers at him, but the physician refused to give in. Eventually, he gave in. "_What?_"

"Why are you doing it in here?"

Beckett gestured with one hand, indicating the infirmary. Considering McKay's earlier confinement, he couldn't see why the man was incessantly hanging around. When McKay didn't answer, Beckett raised his eyebrows, expectantly.

Seeing that Beckett wasn't going to let him ignore the question, McKay coughed self-consciously. "I… kind've… didn't want to be alone, okay?" He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "It's just… too easy to think about—"

"It's all right, Rodney," Beckett said, cutting him off but taking a softer tone. "You can work in here," he said with a knowing smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

When McKay dared to glance up, he saw a shaken, almost haunted look there. Beckett knew. He knew what McKay meant, what he was going through. He supposed he probably looked about the same.

When Beckett disappeared into his office, Rodney tried to return to the problem in front of him, but his mind didn't want to focus and kept drifting instead back to that empty corridor. It took all of his vast will power— which had to try to balance out his shriveled sense of patience— to bring his eyes back to the lines of code in front of him.

All of a sudden, a paper cup dropped in front of his screen, landing on his keyboard and making him jump. "What the heck?" Grabbing the offending piece of refuse, he turned to find Carson standing right next to him. "Don't you have a better place for your trash?"

The doctor's eyebrows knitted together but he had a scarcely contained grin on his face, and that was when McKay noticed what Beckett was holding— in one hand, a paper cup of his own, and in the other, a small bottle of scotch-whisky. "Well I can certainly think of better uses for _this_, but you looked like you needed it."

"What the…" Rodney gave a passable imitation of a fish, his mouth working silently in disbelief. Finally, and with a distinct amount of incredulity; "How did you get this into the City?"

"Elizabeth likes me more than you." Carson was pouring himself some of the golden liquid, before looking at the physicist questioningly. McKay nodded after a moment, holding out his slightly crumpled cup.

"Here's to finding a solution in this mess," Rodney muttered, and Carson nodded, lifting his cup silently, before upending his drink. McKay went to do the same— holy _crap_, what was _in_ this stuff? He tried not to splutter, as Beckett seemed oblivious to the strong drink— he completed his swallow, though, and the burn of the alcohol dissipated into a warmth that settled in his stomach, seeming to spread outwards. It brought with it a sense of calm— entirely psychosomatic, he was sure, but all the same… Maybe he had needed this.

After a moment, the physicist nodded again, this time to himself, as Beckett had already returned to his work. Then, he set to making himself busy again, finding that this time, the work came easier.

The two continued like that for a while, each attending to their own problems and silently keeping one another company, until at one point Beckett stopped, glancing at his watch. It was obvious that McKay wasn't paying as much attention to his work as he would have liked the Scot to believe, as he clued in on it immediately. "What is it?"

"Oh," Beckett said with a wave of dismissal, "I was just thinking it was about time to check on the colonel again." McKay found himself looking at the floor, while Beckett went to one of his cabinets, pulling out a bottle of water. "And maybe take him this."

"Doesn't he get water with his food?" McKay asked, trying to return his focus to equations of power input to the weapons chair.

"Aye, but the way he's been gulping the stuff down, he'll probably need more." Beckett stuffed it halfway in a pocket, before starting for the exit.

For a moment, McKay continued to type. All of a sudden he lifted his fingers from the keys, his gaze rising as something clicked inside his head. "Oh, _shit_." Snapping his head around towards the retreating back of the doctor, he jumped to his feet, hastily dumping the laptop on his seat. "Carson!"

* * *

He was cold. Bored. Alone. Kind've hungry. _Did I mention bored?_ John asked himself as he ticked off everything about this that _sucked_.

And now that Ronon had left, apparently he just wasn't getting any visitors. _Go figure. Wonder why that is._

After a few minutes, Sheppard decided that this whole _thing_ downright sucked. When they had talked about worst-case scenarios in basic, he couldn't remember anything about being held prisoner by _your own teammates_, under false suspicions. Never mind the whole, alien city in another galaxy, body snatching parasite aspects. Not that either of those really cast the situation in a new light. It was just as bad, with or without.

_Well_, he amended with a grimace, _maybe not __**just**__ as bad_. One hand drifted up to behind his neck, where he rubbed the sore, injured spot.

It was healed. Only a slight distortion in otherwise completely smooth skin.

The man had no idea how it was possible— by all accounts, there should have been a tear. A hole. _Something_. Beckett himself had deduced that, with all this host hopping the Goa'uld was doing, it was sapping its strength, including its ability to heal its host as it left. It had left McKay bleeding, and that was before it jumped ship yet again. The fact that Sheppard had no such exit wound was more than enough to convince the others that the parasite was, in fact, still inside one Lt. Col. John Sheppard.

Which was all well and dandy, except for the fact that _it wasn't in him_.

What made it all the worse was that he honestly had no way of proving it to the rest of the senior staff. Sheppard had to admit, he knew they were just doing their jobs. If he had been in one of their positions, he would be forced to do the exact same thing— the evidence, after all, _pointed_ at him. And there was no way for them to know definitively whether or not he was a host, what with the MRI scanner down.

But then, part of him just didn't give a shit. And that was the part that felt like he had been betrayed. He could remember being chased, shot at. Restrained and sedated. And now this. _Locked in a god damned cage._ His thoughts drifted back to the one conversation he'd had with Rodney— before the doors had been shut, to prevent the parasite from 'escaping'. And then he could remember when the thing actually _was_ in him. Clenching his teeth, he let out noise of frustration, smacking his forehead with one palm, before closing his eyes and wishing it could have been the parasite being crushed there.

He had let it in. That much he had dredged up. He had opened himself to it, to _this_, hadn't he? And Sheppard was at a point where he would have _killed_ to have taken it all back.

He had gotten cross with McKay and Beckett. He realized, _now_, that that wasn't exactly going to work in his favor, but again, Sheppard couldn't help but feel he had the _right_ to get angry. They were treating him like the enemy!

And then there was that damned Goa'uld. Remembering it caused goose bumps to form on Sheppard's skin, despite the fact that he had already adjusted to the cold. Especially remembering the things it had done inside of him. It had tortured him and played with him and took every opportunity to make sure he knew how completely under its thumb he was. And worse, what _he_ had done. He could see himself kicking Rodney in the face before planting a knife in his hand. Deceiving the other senior staff into thinking the parasite was still in McKay, then… what?

Teeth still gritted, Sheppard forced the memories to the forefront of his mind, trying to ignore the stabbing sensation in his temple. What came to mind only made him want to retch, or more accurately, kick himself. _Oh hell… what have I done?_

Even knowing, _knowing_ it hadn't been him— it was a waking nightmare. He hadn't just seen it happen, he had _felt_ the emotions the Goa'uld had felt, and that was never going to leave him. Those memories were _his_, were _of_ _him_. Those images, accompanied by feelings of smug triumph, not to mention the subtle thoughts of the snake; purposefully directed at him, telling him how stupid he was to think he could have protected, could have _saved_ what and who he cared about. It had toyed with him, forced him to remember and relive and letting its own emotions wash over him.

Yet still, there were gaps in what he could remember… By now, John couldn't even get upset, angry at whatever the parasite had done to him. It was a small mercy, hell, it was a _miracle_ that there was any amount of time he _couldn't_ recall.

Except… he couldn't remember it actually… _leaving_ him.

_God, what if it __**is**__still in me?_ he suddenly thought, horrified and sitting up as suddenly as if he had been electrocuted. What if it was just playing another mind game? Sheppard began shaking unconsciously, only a little at first, but more as time went on. _What if they were __**right**__…_

Was it even possible? It was there, biding its time, and letting him take all the torture? Sheppard gave a ragged sigh, letting his legs splay in front of him, bent-kneed, and slouching down once more. It could still be _in_ him.

His head dipped into his hands, not quite able to take it all in. _As if this couldn't have gotten any worse…_

* * *

A/N: Why the Scotch? Because Gingercake wouldn't stop pestering me about it. ;P


	29. Ersatz

**Ophidia   
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic   
Thursday, 6 September 2007**

A/N: I have to say, this story's garnered more attention and fans than any other I have, and trust me, it's boggling— in a good way. ;) Though it seems to be waning… does that mean I should hurry up and finish before you all lose interest? ;D

Now for the best news of all— I formed my first (semi) coherent sentence in ASL today! Er, well, I think it was coherent— my instructor got what I was saying the first time, at least …And then there's the fact that 'my first sentence' was me telling him I think I forgot to put my name on my homework…

* * *

**Chapter 28: Ersatz **

* * *

_For a moment, McKay continued to type. All of a sudden he lifted his fingers from the keys, his gaze rising as something clicked inside his head. "Oh, shit." Snapping his head around towards the retreating back of the doctor, he jumped to his feet, hastily dumping the laptop on his seat. "Carson!"_

* * *

_There were gaps in what he could remember… By now, John couldn't even get upset, angry at whatever the parasite had done to him. It was a small mercy, hell, it was a miracle that there was any amount of time he couldn't recall._

_Except… he couldn't remember it actually… leaving him._

_God, what if it __**is **__still in me? he suddenly thought, horrified. What if it was just playing another mind game? What if they were __**right**__…_

* * *

The technicians in the Control Room weren't generally known for gossip or curiosity. Seeing as they were privy to all but a few of the major happenings in the City, those who shared too much off shift generally found themselves switched from Gate-tech duty to something less pleasant, like inspecting the sanitation systems.

But no one in the room could deny that there was a tension, and a sort of desperate need to discuss it now. That ineffable calming force known as Elizabeth Weir was now pacing in her office, visible out of the corners of their eyes; the less scrupulous snuck glances in that direction every few minutes. It put them ill at ease.

None of them said anything though. Not even the usual idle chatter— after the message with the SGC, notifying them that they were cutting off travel to Pegasus, by 'Gate or otherwise, until they had this situation under control… it had really put a damper on any conversation, as the seriousness of their situation sank in.

This 'situation'. That was what everyone referred to it as, as if that made it more removed, less real. It seemed surreal anyhow.

Even though the room was silent but for the sounds of the machines, the rumors had leaked this far. The Goa'uld had been caught, inside someone. It was almost too good to hope… but…

The quarantine had been lifted. It seemed, from a report brought to Dr. Weir, that Dr. McKay was now out from under suspicion. And Weir's sudden anxiety only made it all become that much more plausible.

The technician monitoring communications flicked idly at a switch on his panel. He couldn't help but wonder why Dr. Weir hadn't contacted the SGC yet. Of course, they hadn't gotten any official news— understandably, this was an incredibly sensitive subject, and he suspected that there wouldn't really _be_ any official news. But still… if the Goa'uld had been cornered, he could only think of one reason she hadn't yet called out.

And that was _who_ the thing might be in.

* * *

_This isn't going how I thought it would_.

Weir paused for a moment in her pacing. The issue with Sheppard— _issue_, who was she kidding, this was a disaster— had left her at a loss for what to do. True, there was the positive side to it, but she frowned even as that thought formed. She had at first thought she could at least be relieved at the turn of events; as time passed, though, those same events seemed to wear at the back of her mind. Now she realized the 'positive' was hardly enough to get cheerful about. In fact, there was so much more that could go _wrong_, it seemed, than could possibly go right from here.

But they had Sheppard quarantined in a containment cell. Small comfort _that_ was. But it was something.

Bringing her hand to her head for a moment, she wondered, not for the first time, _where_ she would go from here. She was aware that she _should_ have been calling the SGC, re-establishing the connection between their galaxies. But she couldn't keep a tremulous fear from forming somewhere in the bottom of her stomach.

What would happen when they came for Sheppard? And after?

She began pacing again, but stopped after a few steps. She couldn't recall being this unnerved or uncertain about anything; the foreign sensation did not make her feel any better. _John_…

Their first attempts to speak with him had been abortive at best. As far as she was aware, no one else had spoken with Sheppard since… understandably no one wanted to face a Goa'uld inside their friend, especially with the risk it posed; Weir repeated to herself that he _was_ contained, but unsedated, he still posed a danger. Which brought her back to the SGC. For the well-being of everyone here, there was nothing she could do but call them; she was the leader of this expedition, she was expected to handle things like this, to keep the City safe. Glancing out of her office window, she saw a few heads hastily turn away from her. Though she pressed her lips together in annoyance, she couldn't help but make the connection… people were looking to her, expecting this of her.

But even that couldn't undo personal feelings. Thoughts buzzed through her head, which ached more than it should have— this was all getting to be too much. She reached for a glass that was sitting on her desk, and sipped water from it. It helped only a little.

She _couldn't_ call the SGC, not yet. She felt as though she still had to at least _try_ to fix things here. But then… what choice did she have?

Slowly, but without really thinking about it— afraid that in doing so, she might talk herself out of it— she turned and slipped through the door to her office.

Silent as the Control Room was, it seemed to become that much more still as she emerged from her solitude. She hesitated, before nodding to the 'Gate technician. "Dial Earth. Let them know the Goa'uld's been contained."

An electric current seemed to go through the room, bringing it to life even as the symbols on the Stargate lit themselves. Dr. Weir noted it, then quickly moved on, heading down the adjacent hallway, and leaving openly confused stares behind her. She didn't care, and didn't bother to look back at them this time— she was going to see Sheppard, while she still could.

* * *

Sheppard's head rested on his knees, his shoulders hunched and arms wrapped around his legs. He had spent the last hour— give or take, he figured, since they had taken everything with hard edges away from him, including his watch— trying to make contact with the parasite, on the off chance it _was_ in him. And the end result was nothing.

All that left him was clueless and miserable in jail, as opposed to just miserable in jail. Given time to mull it over, he couldn't find any explanation as to why the evidence all pointed to him, yet he couldn't feel the parasite in his mind.

Oh, he recalled_ that_ with crystal clarity now. The muscles in his torso tightened as he remembered the sensation of driving a knife through McKay's bound hand yet again— it seemed impossible that he could remember the resulting scream so perfectly, able to recreate it in his head exactly as it happened, but then, the Goa'uld had _wanted_ him to hear it. Had wanted him to know exactly what was happening. Even worse was the laugh he could feel escaping his own throat, the sense of satisfaction that he attached to the scene.

Letting out a guttural scream, he rocked his head back against the wall, the resulting pain that spiked across the back of his skull making him regret it. Sheppard instinctively brought one hand up to cradle the sore spot, his thumb brushing the scar on his neck unconsciously. Suddenly, he was unable to stop, and found his whole hand sliding over the mark. His other hand came up to his face, rubbing across it before raking through his hair.

"John?"

Sheppard snapped his head up, disbelieving. "_Elizabeth?_"

She was about the last person he had expected to see in here— though, honestly, he had given up on seeing anyone except security and medical staff a while ago. She just gave a small smile and nodded, hanging back well beyond the cell, but still— Sheppard was grateful for the expression. It wasn't the hatred he had seen in Ronon, or the guilt from McKay… it was an actual smile, even if it was a little forced.

"I wanted to talk to you, John."

He couldn't help but let out a little laugh. "I will gladly talk about _anything_, if it means having someone to talk to." The only human contact he had had the past few hours had been with gruff guards, and Beckett— and he certainly wasn't in the mood to talk with Beckett. Somehow, he knew, though, that the next words from Weir's mouth were coming.

"It's about the parasite."

Sheppard's smile faltered and faded away. Weir was watching him carefully; he should have known. It had taken a while, but somehow he knew that someone would come to convince him he was really a Goa'uld host. It made sense for Weir to be the one to do it, really.

"Elizabeth, let me be honest with you— you know more about what's going on than I do," he said, suddenly feeling quite exhausted and not quite so eager to talk. He thought he could see the corner of her mouth twitch and guessed that that wasn't the answer she had hoped for. "Look," he said all of a sudden, jumping to his feet, not even taking the time to be grateful that Weir didn't take an involuntary step backwards; "I want to tell you that I have proof— that I could show you it's really me. But I don't," he added, trying to make her understand. "I don't know if it left me or if it's just dormant or something, but it's _not controlling me_." Not even aware that he was beginning to plead, Sheppard took a step forward, raising a hand and reaching towards Weir. An instant later, there was an electric crack, and he let out a yell, yanking it back.

_God damned force fields,_ he thought, letting out some choicer curses under his breath as he shook the injured hand. On the edge of his field of vision, he could see Weir moving, closer to the cell. A moment passed, and suddenly the persistent humming that he had grown so accustomed to had ceased. It took a moment for Sheppard to register the absence and its significance, before he looked out at Weir incredulously. She returned his stare, and tentatively, he reached his hand out again.

This time, he was able to wrap it entirely around the bar. The force field was gone. Numbly, he released the bar, trying to mull this new bit of information over. _You can't turn off the shields without unlocking the cell_.

"I believe you, John." _She just unlocked the cell._ Proof of this came seconds later as the door to the cell came open. Unsure of what was going on— was this a trap?— Sheppard lingered where he was. Apparently, Weir didn't mind, as she came into the cell herself.

"Elizabeth," he started, dumbfounded but overwhelmingly pleased with the amount of faith she had in him.

Even more surprisingly, she held up one finger to quiet him, resting it on his lips. Instantly, his brow was furrowed with confusion, and he took a step back. Opening his mouth to ask what was going on, the words died on his lips as Weir stepped in closer to him, her hands going up to his shoulders.

"Elizabeth?" he repeated, incredulously; "I'm…I'm flattered, but—" He was unable to get out anymore as one of her hands snaked around the back of his neck, and pulled the two of them together.

Jerking away from her, Sheppard stumbled and tripped backwards, hitting the ground hard and slamming his head into the floor— he let out a cry of pain before cursing numbly. "What the hell are you doing?" She was beside him, leaning over top of him not a second later. His fall had put enough space between the two of them that he was able to hold her at arms length, but did little more, not wanting to hurt her—

Suddenly, an overwhelming sense of déjà vu came over him— this had happened before, only—

"_No!!_"

In an instant, he realized what was happening, and his eyes went wide with horror. The muscles in his arms flinched back for a second as repulsion overcame him— it was just enough for her to get her face down to his, and this time she seized his head with both hands, locking her fingers behind his skull.


	30. Reversal

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Friday, 7 September 2007**

* * *

**Chapter 29: Reversal**

* * *

_In an instant, he realized what was happening, and his eyes went wide with horror. The muscles in his arms flinched back for a second as repulsion overcame him— it was just enough for her to get her face down to his, and this time she seized his head with both hands, locking her fingers behind his skull._

* * *

"What is it, Rodney?" Alarmed by the sudden note of desperation in the man's voice, Beckett hesitated, turning back towards him, wondering if the stress of the day had finally caught up to him.

McKay, on the other hand, took no notice of the doctor's concern, instead running over and grabbing his arm tightly, as if afraid he would walk off without hearing what he had to say. "We were wrong! We were wrong the whole time!"

"What do you mean we were wrong?"

"About Sheppard!" McKay was working himself up, both upset and angry. Beckett tried to gently remove McKay's hand from his arm, but the vice-like grip wouldn't give any. "The parasite's not in him!"

For a moment, neither said anything; whatever Beckett had expected it hadn't been _this_. "What do you mean not in him?" he asked, his voice low and tight. He cut off the inexorable scathing reply with, "What makes you think that? You think it escaped?"

"_No_," McKay said through gritted teeth, letting out a frustrated sigh, before he let go of Beckett's arm to begin pacing around in tight circles on the infirmary floor. "I don't think it was ever in him, not while _we_ had him. But look that's _not the point!_" he added with vehemence, beginning to gesture wildly as his tirade got louder and louder. "We thought it had to be in him because we didn't see an exit wound— when we all forgot one crucial thing and that's that a Goa'uld _doesn't have to go through the back of the neck!_"

Beckett felt as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on him. "His sore throat," he whispered.

"And all that water he's been drinking because of it?" McKay reminded him, none too gently.

The doctor let out a soft moan, burying his face in his hands. "Oh my _God_…"

* * *

Sheppard writhed on the floor, yelling, trying to twist his head away, but suddenly he felt his skull being slammed into the floor again, and lights erupted behind his eyes. In that same moment, he felt Weir's lip pressed into his; involuntarily, he let out a scream that was muffled, still trying to pull away from her, but she was now on top of him, holding his head to hers— her fingernails digging into his scalp— he saw her eyes, so unnaturally twisted with malicious expression, glow, before he felt something pass into his mouth.

He didn't even have time for the gag reflex to kick in; he tried to scream again, but the excruciating pain robbed him that split second's use of his throat— it felt like it was being ripped open from the inside out— then, he suddenly found that his body moved of its own accord. Disturbingly familiar thoughts began to rush over his own, pulling at them and prying into them and forcing him down. He screamed, again and again, but it went unheard by all but the creature, who now turned his eyes to Weir.

Involuntarily, Sheppard tried to cry out for her, a warning, _something_, and he could hear the thing laugh at him, letting its thoughts drift over him again, toying with him. _Should I or shouldn't I,_ it seemed to say, laughing again as panic began to well inside Sheppard's head. _No, no, don't hurt her!_

But of course the thing didn't listen. It had only given Sheppard the thought to cause him more pain, to make him beg. But even as the form above him began to collapse, coughing, his arms came up, seizing her wrists.

"John?" she was able to ask, still slightly disoriented. But then as he had before, she came to realize what was happening— what he really was. His mouth curved into a grin at the fear on her face.

* * *

"Carson we _don't have time for your pity fest!_" McKay snapped; in truth, he knew exactly how Beckett was feeling— _how could I have been so stupid?!_ Once more, he grabbed Beckett's arm, and this time, yanked him along as he headed for the infirmary exit. Still in shock at his glaring oversight, Beckett allowed himself to be pulled after.

After a few seconds of stumbling like this, he got his feet under him and began running after McKay of his own accord. "Where are we going?" he asked, unable to think of anything else.

"To figure out who it jumped into," he said, turning right once they reached the hallway.

Beckett stopped short, pulling his arm away from the scientist. "Sheppard is in the other direction."

"Oh, _bravo_," McKay said, his voice fast and scathing, turning to face him. "What's your secret identity, Obvious Man?" Beckett understood that McKay was anxious, and that was driving both his attitude and mouth, but he stepped away as McKay reached for his arm again, deliberately refusing to move until he got a better explanation. "Look, if Sheppard had known who it went into, he would have told us already, but he said it himself, he had no proof that it wasn't in him. To _him_, that would have been proof."

Beckett held his arms out to either side, somewhat helplessly. "Then we've nothing to go on," he said, insistently. "We can't just go storming around the city on another witch hunt, when that might give the parasite the chance to—"

"Oh come on, _think_, Carson. The parasite couldn't just pop out of Sheppard's mouth _a la_ Aliens and leap across a room without someone noticing."

The idea clicked with him. "Direct contact of the—"

McKay just rolled his eyes as he turned down yet another hallway. "Yes, Carson, _kissing_." He seemed to think that explained everything, but it left the poor doctor no less confused.

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"What is that… _what do you think it means?_" McKay demanded of him. "It still had to act like Sheppard while it was in him, so that rules out at least half the city, and I'm relatively sure that's the _male_ half." He made a cutting motion with his hand to stop Beckett's protest. "Look, I understand even that amount of deductive reasoning has taxed your head, but try to stay with me. There are only a _handful_ of women on this base that Sheppard could go _mouth-to-mouth_ with and get away with it long enough for that _thing_ to get through." He turned to go again, but this time it was Beckett who caught him, grabbing a handful of sleeve to keep him from running off. As McKay rounded on him angrily, his sharp retort died on his lips as he saw the expression on Beckett's face.

"And only _one_ that would be valuable enough to the Goa'uld," he said, his throat feeling like it was constricting in on itself.

The same realization struck McKay; _everything up till now has been about control._ Who was in the position of most control?

His head whipped around, towards the direction of the path to the control room. "Elizabeth," he exhaled.

* * *

It didn't matter that the parasite was so exhausted that it couldn't produce superhuman strength— Sheppard was already so much stronger than Elizabeth, and it was easy for the thing to wrest Weir off of him, throwing her aside like a doll. He felt a rage build up inside of him, before being choked back down— the creature wouldn't even allow him the freedom to feel what he wanted to feel, and he was left with a strange, hollow numbness. Meanwhile, it rolled him easily to his feet, watching for a moment as Weir coughed up blood, trying to push herself up.

"Let me help you," he said, smoothly, grabbing her by one arm and yanking her roughly to her feet. She tried to pull away, unsuccessfully. "You know, you've got a stressful job. Too bad for you," he continued, hating every word that came from his mouth unbidden, but sounding for all intents and purposes like he was having a conversation with a friend. Even as he spoke, he began to push her back against the wall, much as she had just seconds before, only now their positions were reversed. "It was impossible for me to keep up with being you and attend to my own plans without raising suspicion," the parasite added, glad to torment them both.

"Let _go of me!_" Weir screamed; whatever words were to follow were halted as his other hand came up to her throat, pressing down.

* * *

McKay was vaguely reminded of prairie dogs as heads popped up in surprise, watching the two men dash into the Control Room. He wanted to say something sarcastic to get them to look away, but was too out of breath. To his chagrin, Beckett was able to keep going, and walked nervously over to Weir's office, coming up short.

McKay was about to ask what was wrong when Beckett spun on his heel, startling a few of the nearby techs. "Where is Dr. Weir?"

"She left a few minutes ago, after instructing us to contact the SGC," one of them supplied, his curiosity hardly concealed.

"Why the hell would it do that?" McKay muttered, dropping his voice as he came to stand beside Beckett.

"I've no idea," he replied, growing more and more concerned. "We've got to find her though— Elizabeth," he said, tapping one finger at his earpiece. McKay gave him a look that made it clear he was questioning Beckett's sanity, but the doctor ignored him. So long as the parasite didn't know they knew, it had no reason to hide from them.

Though there was some kind of noise filtering back through the radio, there was no response. McKay must have seen the frown tug at Beckett's lips, and reached for his own radio. "Elizabeth?"

"_Elizabeth is kind've busy at the moment_," an unexpected voice replied. "_But you can talk to me?_"

Both Beckett and McKay stared at each other in disbelief. "Sheppard?"

* * *

"Uh, yeah, funny story about that," he said, smiling knowingly at the woman who was now clawing at his arm, trying desperately to get his hand off of her throat. Instead, it squeezed a little tighter, eliciting a choked yet muffled sound of pain. He watched her mouth work, trying to get out something, to communicate her plight to the men listening on the other end of that radio Sheppard had now hooked on his own ear.

"_How do you have Elizabeth's radio?_"

Sheppard grunted a bit as the parasite tried to step him sideways, not quite avoiding a kick that Weir had lashed out at him. At any rate, John reflected miserably, they were standing too close to each other for it to have been that effective. Even as he felt sorry, _so sorry_, he couldn't help but feel amused at her— it was _pitiful_, the way she struggled, like she—

_No!_ John tried to tear his thoughts away from the parasite's, to keep them separate, but it pressed down on him again. "Well, that's part of the story," he said, his voice somewhat grating with the new pain in his shin. For a moment, he could feel the thing's outrage at the pain it could not will away, before it clamped down on him, forcing his attention elsewhere. Like a fire that had spread to him, Sheppard felt his own inexplicable anger, and was more than happy to take it out on Weir. The radio crackled in his ear, but this time, he didn't answer, his fingers digging even deeper into her flesh— he could see bruises forming now, and she looked like she was about to wilt. Her eyes revealed her panic and her movements were frantic, but jerking, shaking, as if she could only summon her strength in spurts. He could see she was no longer getting any air whatsoever.

And then he was himself again, disgusted, horrified at what he was doing. His fingers didn't relax any— but he was no longer lost in the moment, so completely involved that it was _him_, strangling his friend, her eyes now rolling upwards and her grip on his forearm weakening.

All that meant, though, was that he could now watch in revulsion and hatred, not just for the Goa'uld, but for himself.


	31. Insidious

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Monday, 10 September 2007**

A/N: And now we get to the part where I start breaking chapters irregardless of length, and go with what feels natural. So, expect irregular chapters.

* * *

**Chapter 30: Insidious **

* * *

_Though there was some kind of noise filtering back through the radio, there was no response. McKay must have seen the frown tug at Beckett's lips, and reached for his own radio. "Elizabeth?"_

"_Elizabeth is kind've busy at the moment," an unexpected voice replied. "But you can talk to me?"_

_Both Beckett and McKay stared at each other in disbelief. "Sheppard?"_

* * *

"Colonel? _Colonel._" Beckett glanced back up at McKay— there had been no response for a while now. Neither had to say a word, though; as if by some secret form of communication, they both knew and started heading for the stairs together.

Unexpectedly, the Stargate began to light up, and they both turned back towards the technician.

"It's an incoming wormhole," he offered by way of explanation, pausing to observe something on his screen. "It's from Earth."

Beckett was at a loss for ideas, but McKay paused only a second, before he began snapping his fingers repeatedly, getting one of his own. "We need to stall them… You! Uh… _what's-your-name_… Chuck!" He pointed at the Canadian tech in question. "Tell them they can't come through yet." With that he turned to head out of the room, past the Stargate, whose sixth symbol had just lit up.

"Sir?"

Beckett gave the technician a helpless shrug, unsure of what McKay was getting at himself. McKay, on the other hand, gave the poor man an exasperated look. "Stall them! Keep anyone from the SGC from coming through."

The eighth symbol came to life, and with it, the vortex that resolved itself into the event horizon of a wormhole.

The technician spluttered a bit, but McKay had already left. Doing his best to help the man, Beckett supplied, "Tell them something's wrong with the 'Gate?" He gave another shrug, before turning to follow McKay.

"Uh…" He looked around at his fellow workers, who gave him nothing more helpful than shrugs themselves.

"_Atlantis, this is SGC; we hear you have the Goa'uld in containment. SG-5's standing by to recover it._"

"We read you, SGC," Chuck said, trying to come up with something. "Uh… is everything all right with your 'Gate… Any malfunctions?" he asked, lamely.

There was a pause, before the confused reply came back through. "_Negative, Atlantis… is something wrong?_"

Not all that sure of what he was doing, the technician replied, "Affirmative, SGC— we're getting some pretty strange power readings…"

"_Everything looks fine on our end,_" they reported back. Chuck looked around at his coworkers again. One nearby gestured for him to keep going.

"It seems that… the Goa'uld tampered with some of the 'Gate systems, and the damage went unnoticed until now." He bit his lip, before continuing. "Recommending you refrain from sending anyone through until we can repair it." He gave a shrug of his own to no one in particular— now all they could hope for was that the technician on the other end would buy it.

He grew increasingly nervous as the silence stretched on, until, at last; "_Copy that, Atlantis. We'll hold off for now. Let us know when you've got everything fixed._"

Chuck had to force himself not to audibly sigh in relief. "Affirmative, SGC." A second later, the event horizon dissipated, and he actually did sigh. Around him, the other techs resumed their work, but he wasn't the only one wondering about what had just happened.

* * *

Down the hall—

—_Please don't let anything have happened to her. Don't let Sheppard— let the __**Goa'uld**__— have done anything to her_—

Down a flight of stairs—

—_Still be there, still be there, don't have run off already, not when we have it this time, don't let it have get away_—

Stumbling now as they dashed for the transporter; Carson pulled Rodney back to his feet without a word, but he couldn't put the breath back into the man's chest. McKay was still recovering, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

—_Damn asthma, damn snake… damn it! Everything about this is wrong! Racing to save Elizabeth from Sheppard… to save __**Sheppard**__ from Sheppard…_—

Into the transporter, slamming his hand against the back panel, pausing only long enough to feel his heart threatening to burst out of his chest and maybe take the lungs with it.

—McKay wasn't some kind of action hero and Beckett wasn't some kind of warrior. The M9 strapped to Rodney's thigh seemed to weigh at least twenty kilos, enough to make him stumble again, reminding him that he wasn't supposed to be wearing it and shouldn't _have_ to be and most of all it scared him— and that had to be at least fifty kilos worth of fear, right there, which was easily more than enough to make him stumble, except—

The door in front of them slid open.

Sheppard stared back at them, wide-eyed; Weir was in a heap on the floor behind him. Beckett wanted to go to her, but he couldn't ignore the man standing between them. A kind of revulsion seemed to creep its way up into him, and Beckett stood rooted to the spot.

"Hi… guys," Sheppard started; Beckett noticed his eyes were locked on McKay, and it took only a moment to realize why. McKay's gun was already out of its holster, and pointed, if shakily, at Sheppard's chest. "This isn't _exactly_ what I had in mind…"

"Shut up," McKay snapped. "And get out of him."

Holding up his hands placatingly, Sheppard said, "It's not _in_ me, it's in _Weir_." He tried to take a step, but McKay jerked the gun up to point at his head.

"Don't move!"

The colonel froze, before he turned his head to Beckett, imploringly, sounding almost desperate. "We can't just stand here. We _have_ to help her!"

The doctor had to swallow hard; that was exactly what he wanted to do, but he couldn't risk moving past Sheppard, who was standing in the doorway of the Lantean prison cell— Weir was on the floor inside. "Rodney," Beckett started, "she's unconscious."

"I can _see_ that, Carson. And you! You expect me to think Sheppard would _do_ that to her?" McKay demanded, still refusing to let Sheppard move.

"I had no choice," Sheppard insisted, raising his voice some, expression becoming pained. "God, you think I _wanted_ to hurt Elizabeth? The Goa'uld attacked me, I had to disable her." There was a self-disgusted note to his voice; he closed his eyes for a remorseful moment, then reopened them. "I'm _sorry_." Sheppard then took a deliberate step forward.

McKay very nearly recoiled a half step. "Stay put!"

"Rodney, put down the gun," Sheppard said levelly, lowering his own hands as if to demonstrate.

McKay eyed him nervously. "Whatever you're about to do, or _trying_ to do, you can just _stop!_" He pushed the gun a bit further forward to punctuate his sentence, and the colonel became very still once more; the physicist was starting to become hysterical. If he pushed him too hard, he was going to _break_.

"_Rodney_," Beckett broke in again, eyes still locked onto Elizabeth, "I don't think she's breathing."

The scientist's head snapped around wildly, staring at Beckett in dismay. "_What?_" Sheppard used the opportunity to come another step closer, and McKay spun to face him again. "Stop moving!" he cried, voice becoming a little shrill.

Halting again, Sheppard brought his hands halfway back up, trying to calm McKay down. "We can help her," he declared, "but first you've got to _give me the gun_."

"Oh _like hell!_"

"Whatever you're going to do," Beckett hissed, "do it _now_, Elizabeth can't wait any longer—"

"McKay, you're making a _mistake—_" shaking his head, the soldier let his hands drop, and kept stepping towards the man in question. "And Elizabeth's paying the price!"

"_Stop!_" McKay practically screamed; Sheppard's hand was outstretched, very nearly over the barrel—

The gun reported once.

Beckett recovered from his involuntary flinch to stare at Colonel Sheppard, aghast as he saw blood dripping out from between the man's fingers where they were clutched to one side of his chest. "What did you _do?_" the doctor couldn't help but cry as Sheppard staggered back against the outside of the cell wall.

Rodney looked on numbly, Beretta now held limply in his left hand. What _had_ he done?? There was nothing he could do now but watch, horrified, as Beckett tried to pull at Sheppard's hand and inspect the wound, and Sheppard's eyes went glassy. _McKay, you're making a mistake… There've been too many mistakes. Too… god-damned many._ Silently, because, for once he had lost his voice, he asked John to forgive him.

But then… with Beckett's attention caught with something else, McKay saw the colonel's eyes refocus— it was like an electric shock running through him—

"_Carson!_" he screamed—

—As Sheppard's eyes burned with unnatural light.


	32. Eleventh Hour

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Tuesday, 11 September 2007**

A/N: I'm really sorry about this going up late; I only had about half to two thirds done around 4, and while I considered posting it as it was, I really wanted to get it to this point. As it is, I'm fairly happy with how this one turned out, so I think it was worth it.

And, for those readers in the US, 'cause this is kind've important for me: Patriot's Day. I gotta say, it's one thing to try to write heroes… But that's nothing compared to the real ones out there. Here's to remembering.

That said... enjoy. :)

* * *

**Chapter 31: Eleventh Hour**

* * *

"_Stop!" McKay screamed; Sheppard's hand was nearly over the barrel—_

_The gun reported once._

"_What did you do?" the doctor couldn't help but cry as Sheppard staggered back against the outside of the cell wall._

_But then… with Beckett's attention caught with something else, McKay saw the colonel's eyes refocus— it was like an electric shock running through him—_

"_Carson!" he screamed—_

—_Sheppard's eyes burned with unnatural light._

* * *

Thank God Sheppard didn't have a weapon— that Carson didn't have a weapon, because that close to the colonel, it almost certainly would have been in the soldier's hands before Beckett even realized it.

It was too late for the doctor to scramble back; all McKay saw was Sheppard seizing Beckett's shoulder and then suddenly the Scot was flying towards McKay. The two of them fell in a heap— McKay cursed mentally as the gun was knocked from his hand and began fighting to get himself untangled from Beckett.

By then, chest wound and all, Sheppard had already righted himself and was going for the fallen 9 mil. Perhaps a bit foolishly, Rodney continued his mad dash for it, even realizing there was no way he could reach it first.

When the colonel seized it, he didn't even bother to stand back up, taking a potshot at McKay from where he kneeled.

Yelping, the scientist threw himself back towards the prison cell walls, ducking back behind the curve of it— not that it offered any kind of decent protection, of course. And not that the Goa'uld was going to chase him around in circles for long— but at a loss for what else to do, McKay continued to backpedal, trying to put one of the large pillars between himself and Sheppard— Beckett, he saw out of the corner of his eye, was already doing the same—

Then Sheppard was up, and advancing on them. The Beretta came up—

Both of the other men flinched involuntarily as it reported again, but this time, it was accompanied by the sound of… Sheppard _yelling?_

As McKay peeked out from around his little pillar of safety, he at first couldn't realize what was wrong with the colonel. Beckett, from his better vantage point, realized with a start— "He's going into a seizure!"

The colonel's limbs were twitching, jerking around as if he had suddenly lost control of them— and within a split second, the gun had fallen from his grasp. It seemed he was still consciously aware of what was happening, despite his pained scream, though; as Sheppard staggered back against the room's wall, his face was distorted with anger, made all the more disturbing by the tic in one of his cheeks. His eyes began to roll upwards, but the spasm seemed to be ending.

From where he was, Sheppard was barely able to hang on to this consciousness— within, The Goa'uld was raging against John, both of them trying to tear at each other and suddenly this little creature wasn't so insignificant. All the same, John was _losing_. He could feel it, what little resistance he had been able to offer, slipping away as the Goa'uld refocused its attention inwards.

For a split second, he opened his eyes, and realized it was really _him_ doing it. He could feel _everything_, the bullet wound in his upper abdomen included, and one shuddering hand groped at his side. And then he saw one of the other two— Beckett, maybe, his vision was going spastic— running around the prison cell, ducking…

But then it was the Goa'uld again, and even as it started to force Sheppard's body back into its service, it knew it simply couldn't get there in time to stop Carson from retrieving the weapon as he surely was.

So he turned and ran.

He knew Beckett wouldn't fire at his back, and there wouldn't be time for him to pass the M9 off to Rodney before he had gotten out of sight, and back into the City. Slamming against the back wall of the transporter— he just didn't have time to slow down— Sheppard hastily slapped his hand across the display there.

He closed his eyes as the doors slid shut behind him. They were not going to take him, not today. _You can achieve __**nothing,**_ he added, with more than a little open hatred for its host. But he obviously no longer had the strength to destroy the original— it had wrested control from him, just long enough, and now there were living witnesses at a time when he could ill afford any.

For now, the other was silent, but he could feel its calm; it was pleased, _content_ almost, but still, with that razor edge. Its near-coup and the fact that the parasite could doing nothing about it was making the host confident… If not it, then it's companions. They would kill him.

_If I die, then so do you,_ he replied, relishing the small jolt of fear the other felt— it could not conceal its emotions from _him_, whatever control it thought it might have— _he_ was still the greater. But quickly enough, it resolved itself, pushing the fear down and forcing itself back to that calmness. Again, it said nothing; outwardly, he knew, this one would have said such as, 'Better than this'. But in here… it couldn't hide.

_He_ was still in control. He would win, one way or another. And the words became a half-crazed litany in his mind as he staggered past the reopening doors.

If he had to die, then he wasn't going to let Atlantis go unscathed before him.

* * *

"Rodney… Rodney, take the damn, thing," Carson insisted, from past the buzz in McKay's mind, now that the adrenaline had receded for half a second, leaving him somewhere between coherent thoughts.

Something hard was being pressed into the scientist's hands; as his fingers reflexively closed around it, he recognized the metal of the Beretta— the barrel was still warm, and he shifted his hand uncomfortably, glancing down at the thing.

Beckett gave McKay the once over— satisfied that Rodney's lack of responsiveness was due more to shock than any injury, he returned his attention to Elizabeth.

Not wasting the time to get to her level with any semblance of agility, Carson pretty much fell to his knees. Quickly turning her over, he called back over his shoulder, "Call security, before he gets too far." And then, one hand was at Weir's throat, the other tilting her head back and his ear went down towards her mouth.

She still had a pulse… _Thank God,_ he silently said, unable to quell the relief that came with that discovery. But as the seconds drifted by, the good feeling was soon eclipsed by the realization that no breath was accompanying that weak flutter of a heartbeat.

McKay watched Beckett for what seemed like forever, as the man began to give deep, regular breaths to their leader… Even with his head cleared now, he was all but entranced, in a horror-struck kind of way. _Elizabeth's not breathing…_

When Beckett paused to recheck her pulse, he saw McKay still standing there; "Rodney!"

"Oh, right." McKay said, snapping back into reality. He was on the radio in an instant. "This is McKay; Colonel Sheppard is _loose_, you need to send out security…" He trailed off, watching Beckett attend to Weir— she looked so lifeless. "And we need a medical team in the brig," he finished off in a much smaller voice.

He let his hand drift down from his earpiece; suddenly, Beckett wasn't breathing for Elizabeth anymore.

"What are you doing?" he demanded. Beckett cut him off with an annoyed gesture and a hiss, his head over her face.

"She's breathing on her own again— help me get her up!" The Beretta and all irritation forgot, Rodney rushed to get down to Weir's other side, lifting her suddenly-so-frail form off the hard floor. Sure enough, there seemed to be a weak shuddering going across Weir's torso, and as Carson gently turned her to the side, that shudder became a cough, and a few droplets of red dripped from one corner of her mouth. "Easy… there's a good lass… keep coughing," he encouraged softly.

Then, the most encouraging thing of all— a weak sound, almost a whimper, that resolved itself into something more strained came from the woman's throat, and her expression tightened painfully— she was gaining consciousness.

"Elizabeth?" McKay asked, tentatively. "…You all right?"

"Mm.. Rodney?" Her eyes opened, but closed again; instead of unconsciousness, this time it was a wince. "Oh God… I tried to tell you," she started, but was cut off by Beckett, who made a shushing noise.

"Relax. We're safe… for the moment."

Surprising the both of them, Weir struggled to sit further up instead, feebly trying to get to her feet. "What are you doing?" Rodney asked, incredulous.

"Help me up," Weir ordered; the sense of authority was somewhat lessened by the weakness and rasp of her voice. "We have to get to the Control Room."

The doctor made a disapproving sound; "I think not. Look at the shape you're in."

"I'm fine," she responded. While it seemed Weir was indeed getting some strength back, this was still obviously a lie.

Even struck by the sudden irony of their reversed positions, Beckett flatly told her, "You're not. There's a medical team on the way—"

"They can meet us there." The look she gave Beckett made him hesitate. Even worn as she was, Weir seemed to display the same powerful image she usually did, perhaps even more so… but it lacked that aura that usually accompanied it. Underneath…

Underneath, she was so completely scared of becoming helpless again. Elizabeth didn't want them to see; she tried to be stronger, but it only served to cover up everything else… And this wasn't just about her. Her people— _their City—_ it was _all_ at risk, and every second she sat there, doing nothing, she lost another bit of control. As it was, Atlantis was at risk of collapsing, descending into chaos the Goa'uld threatened to bring… and _that_ terrified her.

She searched Beckett's eyes, before turning to McKay, imploring— practically _pleading_ with him silently to support her. Beckett rounded on McKay as well, almost demanding in contrast for the man to _disagree_.

He said nothing. After a moment, though, he reached out, away from the both of them, and came back up holding the discarded 9 millimeter. Then, reluctant though it was; "We've got to do _something_."

Beckett frowned, but after bowing his head a long second to consider, he brought a finger up to his earpiece.

* * *

"What if… mm." Weir stopped for a moment, bringing McKay and Beckett to a halt— as they were still supporting the woman on either side, it was hard not to. Before the physician could insist they stop and sit down, Weir waved one hand, a little more irritably than she intended, but it was hard to stand up let alone concentrate. "What if it jumps again?"

"No." The two men answered at the same time. However, while the Scot was trying to stay professional and calm, Rodney's reply was brusque; he was practically oozing nerves, and like Weir, was even more irritable than usual. Even so, he continued. "It's far too weak to do anything of the sort. We can be reasonably sure it's _stuck_ where it is."

"Speaking of," Beckett said, in a bit of a hushed tone though he didn't know why. "Why would it be in Sheppard again, of all people? It was in him once and left. Why go back?" The man's frown deepened. "It had to realize it wouldn't be able to take another."

McKay let out a noise of disparagement. "Of course; the first time was by necessity, so this time must be by _choice_."

Trying to rejoin the conversation before she was completely left behind, Weir asked, "Then why choose Sheppard?"

Ahead, they could hear raised voices and urgent orders as they approached the Control Room; McKay seemed oblivious. "Well, what does Sheppard have that you don't?" he pointed out.

"The ATA gene," Beckett filled in, sounding none too thrilled, and Weir nodded along. "It must be planning something."

"Mm, yes, and with everything it now _knows_," McKay added, sharing an uneasy glance with the other two— and it was _their_ knowledge, the three of them, that threatened to undo the fragile peace the City had so recently reclaimed; "That spells _all_ kinds of trouble for Atlantis."

Then the three of them came into the Control Room, a scene of organized chaos. Orderly _panic_ was more like it, on second thought. It didn't take long to figure out that Sheppard was still out there, somehow managing to elude everyone.

With a look that actually bordered on apologetic, McKay slipped Weir's arm off his shoulder and joined the fray. It was all right, the woman thought; in fact, she felt a little overwhelmed and wondered why she had been so insistent on being here— obviously, the City had been running without her, and there didn't seem to be much she could do. Carson had steered her towards the railing, which she gratefully leaned against. _Still… I'd rather be here than anywhere else… especially now_.

The two of them stood together, watching the current crisis unfold in front of their eyes. At a nearby console, Rodney was trying to track Sheppard's progress; "It's got to be getting desperate by this point," he was saying.

Whatever he was about to add after was cut off by the sudden siren bleating, from all around.

Time seemed to slow in the Control Room as everyone slowed, listening to the alien alarm, before bursting back into a frenzy.

"What? What is it?" Beckett asked, trying to catch McKay's attention as the scientist rushed past.

"It's the self-destruct!" he yelled back over his shoulder. Elizabeth suddenly felt as if her knees were about to give out.

Beckett seemed as dumbstruck as she was. "_How?_"

Seeming to find her voice again, it was Weir who broke in. "Well, he's got _four_ command codes by now." She tried to follow after McKay as he started to dart across the room, but only got a few feet before her legs really did give out, and she staggered into the back of a command console, barely catching herself on it. The woman figured there was one good thing about the deafening warnings— they drowned out Beckett's rebuke. All the same, she wasn't refusing his help as he helped her stand again.

The little stunt had successfully caught Rodney's attention though. Weir couldn't help but feel a little guilty at the suddenly worried look across the scientist's face as he returned. Trying to wave off his and Beckett's concern, as well as speak over the alarm; "Can we deactivate it without Sheppard's code?"

There was a beat, before McKay replied, "Theoretically, sure."

Beckett was unamused. "_Theoretically?_ Rodney…"

"All right, _yes!_" McKay couldn't help but let out a sound of exasperation. "Assuming something _else_ doesn't go wrong!"

Without warning, the blue-green lights of the Stargate began to spring to life. Dumbfounded, the three heads of staff watched, until the third symbol had lit itself and Carson rounded on the scientist.

"You just had to say it, didn't you?!"


	33. Checkmate

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Wednesday, 12 September 2007**

A/N: Okay, I can barely count this one as going up on 'Wednesday' (but it's not midnight yet where I live so :P). Sorry; again, this is one I really wanted to get to a certain point before I posted, and, well, class didn't agree with me.

Oh yeah, I can all but guarantee you tomorrow's chapter is gonna be up a few hours late as well. I don't mean to test y'all's patience, I really don't… Not on purpose, anyhow… :)

* * *

**Chapter 32: Checkmate**

* * *

"_Can we deactivate it without Sheppard's code?"_

_There was a beat, before McKay replied, "Theoretically, sure."_

_Beckett was unamused. "Theoretically? Rodney…"_

"_All right, yes!" McKay couldn't help but let out a sound of exasperation. "Assuming something else doesn't go wrong!"_

_Without warning, the blue-green lights of the Stargate began to spring to life. Dumbfounded, the three heads of staff watched, until the third symbol had lit itself and Carson rounded on the scientist._

"_You just had to say it, didn't you?!"_

* * *

Someone was yammering for two of them to come and turn off the self-destruct— as if he didn't already know that! Ignoring Carson's little quip, McKay set himself on the closest laptop, calling up the appropriate interface and typing in his command code. "The self-destruct was probably just a distraction so it could dial the 'Gate," he muttered. Then, he picked the thing up and spun it to face Elizabeth so she could put in her own.

She paused for a moment. "I thought you said it was a distraction?"

"Yes well, that doesn't mean the City still won't _blow up_ if we don't turn it off."

Without further argument, the woman tapped in the sequence. Finally, the Lantean alarm went silent, leaving a distinct ringing in their ears. And just because it had to be one crisis after another, the Stargate's vortex exploded towards them.

Someone yelled to put up the shield, and the shimmering barrier came to life over the event horizon, effectively locking Sheppard in. Weir turned her head, trying to follow the conversation of a nearby pack of scientists trying to figure out how the Goa'uld had dialed the 'Gate, since it obviously hadn't done it through the control console.

"_Atlantis._" The unexpected voice of General Landry suddenly came through the radio. "_We were starting to get worried._"

"It dialed Earth?" Beckett sounded incredulous. "That makes no sense."

"No, it does," Weir commented; "It's the only way it can get back to its galaxy." Meanwhile, McKay dashed towards the communication console, all but shoving the poor tech out of the way. Almost as an afterthought, he glanced back at Elizabeth, but she waved for him to go ahead— _he might as well take over here,_ she thought ruefully, _for all the good I'm doing._ She felt someone squeeze her shoulder comfortingly, and turned to give Beckett a grateful smile.

Then she turned her attention back to the Stargate… Below, a contingent of marines was assembling around it.

A thought occurred to her. It seemed the Goa'uld had difficulty operating Ancient technology through its host… but with a stronger base gene to work with— _why choose Sheppard?_ "Couldn't it have used a Jumper's DHD?" Weir asked of no one in particular.

Almost as if in answer, the ceiling of the 'Gate-room retracted to reveal the Jumper Bay— ominously enough there was nothing out of the ordinary there. It all made sense though, and Elizabeth found herself stumbling back to the railing to watch. Still, nothing; Weir held her breath… The military personnel had brought their weapons upwards, but had nothing to aim at, and it was making them jumpy.

And then the room was filled with a thrumming, the kind you could feel in your chest. Carson was suddenly by her side again, gripping her elbow so tightly that Elizabeth nearly flinched, pulling her back away from the edge—

A streak of white seemed to originate out of thin air, and then raced back towards them.

An explosion rocked the command area— Weir felt herself being knocked to the ground by another human body; her cry of surprise was intermingled with everyone else's, and drowned out by the blast. It seemed the drone had impacted _below_ the balcony, she noted numbly, but had it's angle been just a few degrees higher…

"It seems you were right," Beckett was saying as he hauled the injured woman back to her feet and away from the railing.

"I don't know how Rodney can stand it so much," she mumbled, suddenly feeling a bit woozy as the blood rushed from her head.

"_Shit!_ The shield's out!" The sudden declaration from McKay caught the attention of many people in the room— whatever the alien weapon _had_ hit, it had hit _hard_; and now, they seemed to realize with a shock, Sheppard was no longer stuck. Beckett watched the scientist practically dive for the radio microphone. "General, we need you to close your iris!"

Someone on the other side of the wormhole— a gate tech, maybe— replied, "_But the IDC—_"

McKay had just about reached his breaking point as far as stupidity from underlings went today, and screamed, "_Screw_ the IDC!" Then he looked out at the seemingly empty space above the 'Gate, and swallowed, distracted.

For a long moment, the Control Room seemed to go silent as everyone picked themselves up, watching the Stargate's event horizon, searching for any sign that something was passing through. But the humming— just on the edge of auditory range— didn't stop.

"All right," McKay announced. "He's obviously in a Puddle Jumper. Let's find it!"

The room became hectic again; Weir pushed lightly at Beckett's shoulder. "Go see if anyone was hurt and needs help— I'll be fine," she assured him. After a moment, he nodded, acquiescing. When the physician disappeared into the steadily growing chaos, Elizabeth tried to move towards where Rodney had now established himself; he was shouting orders, procedure, and— starting to get a bit of his old self back— insults over everyone's collective heads.

She'd be damned if she sat this one out now— injured or not, her people were in danger, and Weir wasn't just going to let McKay do everything because he would. "What about the Jumper Bay doors?" she asked. They had stopped the Goa'uld from escaping through the Stargate back to Earth, but that didn't mean they had trapped it on Atlantis. A couple people nearby nodded when she gave them a meaningful glance, and set themselves to the task, making the diplomat breathe a sigh of relief. _One crisis after another…_

Meanwhile, one poor technician had the gall to ask aloud, "Where is it?" just as McKay tried to reestablish contact with the SGC.

"I _don't know_, it's _invisible_," he snapped, making the girl flinch and dart away.

Almost a little distracted by the physicist's antics, Weir called out, "Someone _get that shield back up_… and make sure those doors stay locked!" Before she could reproach him, though, Landry's voice came back through.

"_Atlantis… __**what**__ is your situation?_" It sounded as though Weir wasn't the only one unimpressed by McKay's offhand manner.

It wasn't helped much when Rodney replied with, "Hold that thought, we're kind've busy at the moment—"

"_Rodney_," Elizabeth said, a note of warning to her voice. He started for a moment, glancing over at her in surprise, almost as if he hadn't expected her to still be here. She had gotten close enough to pull the microphone away from him though, and quickly took control of the conversation before it deteriorated further. "General, this is Weir. It's not safe for you to accept any travelers from Atlantis yet—" she paused, realizing that with their shield still out, if the outgoing wormhole disengaged and the SGC didn't know what was going on, it was possible they'd try to assist— "_or_ send any," she concluded.

At the same time, McKay was watching some idiot at the citywide LSD, trying to radio down instructions to the personnel on the ground level. Sure they could track where Sheppard was in the Jumper, but that didn't translate into an effective battle strategy… unless…

"Carson!" he suddenly cried, because he was the only person he could think of besides himself who was in the room and had the ATA gene. The doctor stood up, a few meters away, and Rodney wasted no time in grabbing him by the arm and dragging him towards the room's exit. Not even giving him a chance to protest, McKay started speaking, rapid-fire; "I need you to go pilot a Jumper and shoot Sheppard down with a drone—"

"You want me to do _what?!_"

"Oh come on, it's not like you've never done it before—"

"_Rodney!_"

Suddenly, another explosion shook the room, and this time, debris rained down from above the Gate room— the cries of the marines who hadn't gotten out from under the stuff's path in time rose up to meet them—

"Carson, don't argue, _just go!_"

With a look of… what, despair? Carson made a small noise, before screwing up his face and running for the stairs that would take him up to the Jumper Bay. Looking back at the 'Gate room in desperation, Rodney realized all of a sudden that the 'Gate's connection had given out. It didn't activate again… He could only guess it had realized it wouldn't be getting out that way.

That knowledge didn't relieve the scientist.

* * *

Sheppard cursed as the Puddle Jumper listed to the side, almost drunkenly. It was all he could do to keep the thing off the walls; trying to fire and aim and _fly_ all at the same was proving difficult, and he punched the console once, face twisted into an angry scowl. This was taking too long!

Clenching his eyes shut— _work, damn it!_— he willed another drone out of the Jumper's weapon pods. The other was still struggling— it's thoughts were straining to register with the city, interspersed within his own.

The drone veered off path and scraped along the upper walls of the 'Gate room before they slammed into the edge of the upper doors— a bit more debris fell, but it had been a poor shot. Letting out a nasty hiss, Sheppard glared upwards— _maybe I should just batter my way through_… then his eyes fell back to the control area.

Elizabeth was there, and Rodney… they didn't know it, but they were just about level with him, and the Jumper started to drift forward when he focused on their faces— one problem with a ship that reads your mind, he supposed. One among _many_, and that list was steadily growing. When that thought struck him, Sheppard's expression darkened again.

"I am going to enjoy this," he muttered, and focusing as intensely as he could on the command consoles, sent another mental command to the weapons pods.

* * *

Elizabeth's eyes widened as she saw another white streak appear— it seemed to loll in the air for a moment, before it started to move again. A white blur, not really moving in her field of vision… growing steadily larger.

"Down! _Everyone down!_" she cried.

People were dashing and throwing themselves to the side, but even as Elizabeth fell to the floor, she could see it wasn't enough— not for her, not for any of them—

A console a few meters down burst into a shower of sparks— a loud _crack_ of electricity and Ancient building materials shattering and screams… but no explosion.

McKay was one of the first clambering to his feet, patting himself down in disbelief. "We're not dead… I'm not dead," Rodney said, becoming almost giddy with relief at that last statement— but it faded away just as quickly. They were alive, but for how long? He leaned towards the now ruined console in question; the drone was still in tact— and inactive.

But obviously, the Goa'uld's aim was improving.

Muttering; "C'mon, Carson, any time now would be _great_."

* * *

"_No!_"

_How_ could it have gone inactive? How had there even been _time?!_ Infuriated, the creature turned inwards, sending as much pain as he could at the host, tossing blows and now receiving them in turn. Vile, _foul_ little cretin, _I should have crushed you the moment you first foolishly gave yourself to me! You are __**mine!**_

A sudden beeping stole his attention away from the internal battle, and brow tightened in frustration, Sheppard leaned towards the console in the Jumper… proximity—

The whole craft bucked, knocking the colonel's forehead into the console he had been examining, and he let out an involuntary sound of pain. Scrabbling for a hold in the suddenly jolting ship, the pilot called up the heads-up display.

"_What?_" he demanded aloud, incredulous. There was another active Jumper, above him!

* * *

Descending like some proverbial angel on high, a sleek grey Puddle Jumper descended from the bay above; there was maybe even a pillar of light accompanying it. Never mind that that light was from the hole in the upper bay doors, the hole which was steadily growing larger and filling the 'Gate room floor with twisted hunks of scorched metal.

All the same; "Carson!" Rodney fingered his radio, jogging towards the stairs and pausing on top of them to get a better view. "About time you showed up! Nice shot," he added, sounding inordinately pleased and relieved all at the same time. He could still see the occasional flicker from Sheppard's Jumper; its cloak must have been damaged.

The thing seemed to be spinning, from what he could tell— it fired yet another drone, this time up towards the uncloaked ship, which coasted— not entirely smoothly, but for once, Rodney didn't _care_— out of the way, and the drone bounced off of the wall, deactivating again. The second Jumper responded with a missile of its own.

The thing completely missed Sheppard's Jumper— soaring past and slamming into the base of the stairs Rodney was standing on top of.

Suddenly feeling a lot less cheerful, Rodney flinched and yelled through the radio, "_What the hell are you doing?_"

"_I'm sorry, but I'm not exactly good at this!_" was the upset reply he got.

"Call it a hunch," Rodney shot back, "but I _think_ I noticed."

"_Stop talking and let me try not to kill myself, would you??_"

The scientist had retreated to the edge of the stairs, the wall sectioning it off from the control room. He was about to duck back behind it, when suddenly the second Puddle Jumper came spinning down— _Oh God, he's hit_— his heart started pounding, before he realized that Sheppard hadn't fired anything.

Instead, with a crash and great screech of metal, the upper Jumper came down on top of the lower— it's cloak seemed to flash a few times before failing completely. Its power seemed to die along with it.

For a long while, the room seemed to go eerily still and silent, save for the continuing thrum of the engines in Carson's Jumper. Unknowingly breaking the silence, Carson radioed in, "_Is it over? …Is the Jumper down for good?_"

_Read the HUD,_ Rodney couldn't help but think, before he caught himself. Carson had just gone _mano y mano_ with Sheppard in something that flew, and won, he had to give the guy _some_ credit he _supposed_… Though this was something he himself could endlessly pester Sheppard over, as a consolation…

Somehow, though his mind was telling him that was supposed to be funny, Rodney just wasn't laughing.

"We're about to see," he radioed back, finally, rising back to his feet and taking a few steps down the stairs.

"_Rodney._" It was Elizabeth's voice this time, and relieved though he was that she wasn't badly hurt after all that, the scientist didn't let it stop him. Turning to see the woman halfway across the room, still sitting on the floor. Her forehead was creased with lines of worry; he knew he couldn't look any better. She mouthed the words, _be careful_, at him, and he nodded, feeling very sick all of a sudden.

Marines were beginning to gather around the downed Jumper— Carson was already landing his, not bothering to take it back up to the bay, probably to join the med team that was starting to assemble as well. Ignoring both groups, Rodney strode straight past all of them, and quickly snatching the Jumper's remote from the hands of a young Marine.

"Wait here," he snapped to those close enough to hear; a second later, and not sounding nearly so confident, he added, "and… be ready to come in and… well… yeah, just… wait here," he repeated lamely. Before he could be talked— or ordered— out of it, Rodney hit the button that would drop the back ramp of the little craft.

Wandering in, the man's hand fell back to the M9 on his thigh… what, half the shots were gone now? Damn it, he should have paid attention. _This,_ he decided all of a sudden, _this is what scares me the most about these stupid guns_. When he could sit there and calmly count shots— shots that were going into his _friend_…

The trip through the aft compartment didn't take nearly long enough. All of a sudden, Rodney was upon Sheppard, who was slumped forward over the console. There seemed to be a little blood there as well— knocked out by the sudden impact with the floor, it seemed.

He thought back to the brig, where Sheppard had dropped the gun instead of shooting him. And just a minute ago, the deactivated drone. There _had_ to be something of Sheppard left.

Even so, Rodney pulled his pistol from its thigh holster. _Too many mistakes,_ he reminded himself. Wasn't that what science was? Perform an experiment, note results, adjust hypothesis, correct mistakes.

Tentatively, he pulled at Sheppard's shoulder, pulled the man away from the dash.

And elbow came up to meet him in the face.

This time when Rodney staggered back, he kept a deliberate grip on the gun. Sheppard was _growling_; yells were going up outside the Jumper. Even with a dark red slick down his front, the colonel dove for Rodney's neck, ready to snap it.

Two gunshots sounded in quick succession, and Sheppard dropped to his knees at Rodney's feet, suddenly sporting two new wounds. One had only grazed his side, but… the other had gone well into a lung.

Almost… surprised… Sheppard fingered the injury, as if he couldn't be sure it was really there, chest shuddering ever so slightly and bringing a small amount of blood up with a tremulous cough. He didn't even notice the other soldiers rush up behind Rodney. Hell_, Rodney_ didn't notice the other soldiers rush up, he didn't notice as they paused at what they saw. He was too busy looking on in dismay… but this time, he knew he had done what he had to.

Looking back up, Sheppard nearly collapsed, falling onto one hand, the other still resting on his chest. Somehow, it managed to draw up a look of hate, weakened though it was.

"Even if he survives," it said, breathing now bearing an obvious rasp from the liquid accumulating in his lung, "What makes you think I won't kill him myself?"

"If that happens," Rodney said quietly, "It won't be on your terms."

Part of him wondered if that would have been a comfort to John… The thing finally couldn't keep a hole of consciousness anymore, and Sheppard fell in a heap, blood steadily pooling beneath him. Then the medical team was pushing their way in, shoving past the soldiers and past the scientist. The Scottish doctor was there with them, kneeling and calling orders and somehow still managing to keep his head in all of this.

"Carson," he said, his voice breaking. "What are you…"

The man stood, turning to face Rodney as he trailed off. "He's not dead yet," he said, not able to help but feel sorry for the scientist, before trying to give an encouraging smile. "We're not going to let Colonel Sheppard go that easily."

Neither felt particularly reassured as they turned to see Sheppard's body being lifted to a stretcher, oxygen mask in place over the man's mouth, different people applying pressure to various wounds across his torso. It was a frightening thing, to see someone usually so strong and in control, in such a state… even more so knowing you had put them there.

"So what happens now?"

Carson wished he had a right answer to Rodney's question— he sounded so completely disheartened. There rarely was one, though. "Now, we do everything we can to keep him alive… then we wait and see."


	34. Elegy

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Friday, 14 September 2007**

A/N: Sorry so late! I got fairly sick yesterday and am now well and truly doped up on antihistamines and painkillers.

Next chapter'll be up soon; as we draw to a close, the chapters are getting bigger, I've noticed. So, it may be a little late. (Expect it Monday or Tuesday, at the latest.) I'll be slaving away on it while I'm in Galveston this weekend, if it's any consolation. (Y'know the one place in Texas all the hurricanes hit? Yeah, that's the one.)

* * *

**Chapter 33: Elegy **

* * *

_They turned to see Sheppard's body being lifted to a stretcher, oxygen mask in place over the man's mouth, different people applying pressure to various wounds across his torso. It was a frightening thing, to see someone usually so strong and in control, in such a state._

"_So what happens now?"_

_Carson wished he had a right answer to Rodney's question— he sounded so completely disheartened. There rarely was one, though. "Now, we do everything we can to keep him alive… then we wait and see."_

* * *

Dr. Elizabeth Weir watched a squad of marines, hovering on the edge of the Gate room, while clean up crews saw to the destruction of a few hours ago. By now it was near middle of the night again— _hard to believe it's been only twenty four hours_, she added silently.

Unbidden, a frown came on to her face as her attention returned to the men. They weren't _her_ marines.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Elizabeth blinked once, before the corners of her mouth curled upwards ever so slightly. "Save your money." Most of the wit was lost in the weariness of her voice; Carson moved to stand next to the woman at the railing. She glanced over at him, but only for a moment.

"Come on," he insisted. "What's wrong?" Carson paused, realizing what he'd just said, and closed his eyes, before letting out a rueful laugh. Elizabeth had raised one eyebrow. "What's on your mind?" he corrected.

"At the moment?" The diplomat took a moment to reflect. "I don't know. I think I'm just tired."

_That_ didn't come as a surprise. Carson had passed the point of getting exasperated with her long ago. "When's the last time you slept?" he asked instead. Elizabeth opened her mouth to reply, before her eyes started to wander, trying to remember. After a few seconds of this, Carson shook his head and held up a hand, trying not to sigh. "Never mind."

All Elizabeth could offer was a half-apologetic smile. She would have liked nothing more than to go to bed, but sleep would be impossible— the same things that were bothering her now would refuse her the chance to rest. Speaking of… "How's John?"

Carson inhaled deeply, trying to think of how to answer that question. Truth be told, the man was just about as worn as her, for that very reason. "He's stable," he said at last. "I think I should save the rest for the briefing."

That didn't bode well; Elizabeth found the breath catching in her throat. It became a lump she was hard pressed to swallow; she'd just have to accept it, for now, it seemed— Carson looked adamant. He also looked grim.

"Well," Elizabeth said at last, trying to keep her reply level, "it's just about time for that anyways… Shall we?"

Somehow, the briefing room was easier to face going in together than it would have been alone. To be fair, Elizabeth had faced her fair share of bad news and briefings in there—

But then, she'd always been the other side of the desk.

It was the same damned thing with the marines in the 'Gate room— but then, Elizabeth hadn't been in politics all these years for naught. Carefully composing her expression into a polite smile, instead of the irritation she really felt, she walked into the conference room, shoulder to shoulder with the Scottish doctor.

"Dr. Weir, Dr. Beckett." General Landry greeted them.

Lorne was already seated on one side, a couple seats away from Landry, she noticed with a strange feeling of satisfaction, though he quickly rose; "Ma'am." Elizabeth gave him a grateful, but warning smile. It was nice to know he still saw her as 'in charge', but now was not the time to take shots at the current— and as long as things went well, _temporary_— leadership.

There was a female doctor there as well, one Elizabeth didn't recognize, though Carson nodded to her.

"Dr. Lam," the other woman offered, standing to shake Elizabeth's hand, which the diplomat accepted readily enough; glancing out the corners of her eyes, she noticed Carson's expression was notably blank.

Wracking her brain, Elizabeth dragged up a description. "Stargate Command's chief medical officer?" Lam's smile confirmed her suspicions— and explained Carson's strange attitude. She could empathize— the SGC had stepped in and taken over things as soon as they had called and told them they were clear. Elizabeth had to wonder how much of it was because there had been a Goa'uld in Atlantis… or because it was the heads of staff who had been compromised.

"We're just waiting on Dr. McKay now." General Landry's patience seemed to be wearing thin; as the minutes ticked away, so did any shreds of a good mood he seemed to display.

At last, Rodney walked in, eyes locked onto a tablet in one hand; the other was occupied with a cup of coffee. Glancing up, his brow furrowed a little, seeing everyone else already there and staring at him. "Am I late?"

"Yes," Landry replied, with a wry smile. "You are."

"…Huh." Shrugging, McKay slid into a seat next to Carson. Elizabeth couldn't even bring herself to chide him for his unabashed discourtesy. Landry seemed slightly put off by the man's lack of apology, but quickly brushed it off, plunging the six of them straight into the matter at hand.

Cleanup was a slow but steady process— so far it looked like everything could be fixed. Rodney had started muttering about how repairs to the systems themselves would have gone faster if he'd been allowed to oversee it, but Carson had elbowed him in the ribs, cutting off that argument before it began. The worst of it, of course, was the Jumper Bay, and Jumper Six, the one the Goa'uld had tried to commandeer. A new MRI had been brought in from Earth, and with the fixed Ancient systems, everyone in Atlantis was being screened as they spoke.

"Speaking of," and Landry then turned to Lam— "you've confirmed it's in Sheppard?"

She nodded, noting the tightened expressions on the faces around her. These four had been the first to get screened, even before the colonel— who had only just gotten out of hours worth of surgery.

The general's grim expression mirrored those of the Atlantis personnel. "What's the status on that front?" This time, his voice and demeanor were much more subdued.

Lam glanced to Carson, who took a good long breath to steel himself up for this. "We cannot remove the Goa'uld from Colonel Sheppard."

"_What?_" "Bull!"

"What do you mean?" Elizabeth demanded, over Rodney and Lorne's outcries; both were standing, and it was only with a great amount of self restraint that Elizabeth herself was still in her seat.

Landry was gesturing for both men to sit back down— Major Lorne had to stoop and pick his chair back up from where he'd accidentally flipped it to the floor; Rodney, on the other hand, was staring at Carson in disbelief. Trying to restore some measure of order, Landry asked, "Would we open up any more options by moving the colonel to the SGC?"

"We can't move him," Lam was quick to intervene, before the suggestion caused another mutiny. "He's in critical condition… Stabilized for now, but even the trip to the SGC could undo the little progress we've made."

Carson just shook his head. "It's not a question of whether we have the capability to remove the symbiote, General."

"Hold it," Rodney interrupted. "_Symbiote?_ You mean _parasite_." His angry glare defied Carson to contradict him. "There's nothing _symbiotic_ about that—"

Lam broke in, saying, "There is now."

Rodney's glare snapped over towards Lam, but Carson cut him off this time with a tight grip on the man's arm. "The reason we can't remove the thing is because it's all that's keeping him _alive_," he elaborated, an air of bitterness in his voice.

"…What?" Rodney repeated, suddenly losing much of the furor he had displayed just seconds ago.

That bit of news was enough to render the rest of the room silent, though; even Landry was dumbstruck for a moment. Being the only other one who already knew the story, Dr. Lam tried to assist Carson.

"He's in extreme levels of shock," she informed them. "The symbiote is doing its best to keep his organ systems from failing, but it can't do that and heal the damage as well. It's a… slippery slope. It keeps trying to repair what it can, but the state of his body deteriorates to the point that it's making no real progress."

"So what do we do?" Landry was obviously deferring to the two of them— that was the problem though, Carson reflected. There was no right solution.

When neither of the medical professionals answered, Major Lorne broke in. "Could he heal on his own? As long as that snake keeps him alive…"

"Oh what, and we just leave it in him?" Rodney replied in a low tone, sounding almost disgusted.

Lorne bit back. "I don't want it in Colonel Sheppard any more than you do, but if that's the only chance he has—"

"_Boys_." Elizabeth rubbed at her temple, clearly annoyed. A bit chagrined, the major leaned back from the table. Rodney just let out a hiss through his teeth, and the woman shot him a dangerous look— he was walking on thin ice, it said, before she sighed. Elizabeth didn't particularly want to explore that line of thought either, but bickering would solve nothing

General Landry seemed to think otherwise. "Is that a viable option?"

When Carson balked, he turned to Dr. Lam instead. "It… does offer the colonel the greatest chance of survival." She sounded almost… reluctant to admit it. Rodney snapped his head around to glance at her, looking almost like he'd been slapped.

"'Greatest chance'?" The Canadian scientist seemed to contest that judgment, and vehemently. "It offers a _zero_ chance. As soon as that Goa'uld regains awareness, and realizes it has no way out, it will kill him."

Tilting his head forward, Landry's eyebrows went up; "What makes you so sure?"

"It _said_ as much," Rodney replied, a bit more subdued as he realized how poorly that supported his argument.

"A Goa'uld wouldn't sacrifice itself, as long as it thought there was a chance it might live," Elizabeth reminded him softly.

"Aye," Carson agreed, surprising many at the table as he glanced around. "It would completely heal Colonel Sheppard, back to perfect health." Then he turned to face Landry full on. "But by then, the Goa'uld would have fully recovered itself, and taken complete control." He paused, letting that sink in. "It will be content to leave the colonel alive, yes, but only so long as it is in him. If we tried to forcibly remove it at that point…" He trailed off, seeing no need to continue. They got the point.

"All right," Lorne said, breaking the silence. "But how do we stop it? It's got to know by now that we'd never let it have Colonel Sheppard." He looked around, openly daring them to say otherwise.

The general raised one hand. "Don't worry Major, that's one option we're not considering. I am curious, though," he added for the two doctors.

This just kept getting worse and worse; Lam had known from the start it would go badly, but how much so— well, she wasn't so much wondering when they'd hit rock bottom as she was wondering if there really was such a thing as a bottomless pit. "The Goa'uld's under sedation, and Colonel Sheppard's in a medically induced coma. It's not a permanent solution, obviously, but it can at least keep it under control until they've healed enough to communicate."

"What if you wake Sheppard up?" Elizabeth asked, suddenly thinking of the possibility of talking to John; after all, who had more right to decide what happened—

Rodney apparently was following her line of thought, and cried, "Yes!" Elizabeth nearly started as he rejoined the conversation. She was so used to him being continually part of anything that was going on, that when he had fallen silent, she had nearly forgotten his presence. He sounded excited now. "If you can sedate the Goa'uld, and bring Sheppard out—"

"It won't work," Lam said shortly.

This time, Elizabeth was the one leaning forward, getting argumentative. "You can't know that, and I personally think—"

"We tried, Elizabeth," Carson commented softly. It was still somehow loud enough to cut across the whole room, and silence them once more. "He went into a seizure, and his heart stopped."

Dr. Lam laid it out plainly. "He's too weak to even regulate his own heartbeat. Right now… Colonel Sheppard needs the Goa'uld symbiote as much as it needs him."

Elizabeth shook her head at that. "Then what about the Tok'ra? Surely they—"

"If the shock of removing the first symbiote didn't kill him, the implantation of a second would." Lam paused, before glancing down at the table. "I'm sorry."

"…Maybe you could negotiate with it," Landry suggested, trying to find a topic that would ease the steadily growing tension.

Could he really be serious? The look Elizabeth gave the General seemed to ask as much. "_Negotiate_ with it."

"It's not like you've never done the impossible before."

"…What for?" she asked, incredulous.

"Whoa, _what?_ Not for another host!" Rodney suddenly exclaimed, before he rounded on Landry, as if he had suggested it. "No, absolutely not! We've got to… kill this thing!"

"Need I remind you, doing so would kill Colonel Sheppard?" Landry replied, losing what little patience he had for the other man. He sighed loudly; the ragged sound made Elizabeth feel a little regret at treating the man how she had— this wasn't any easier for him.

"There is an option we haven't considered," Carson said, in that same, quiet voice that made a chill run straight up the back of Elizabeth's collar. He waited until the room quieted once again, or maybe he was just having a hard time putting his thoughts into words. Even Rodney let him have his time, which was saying something. "There may not _be_ a way to save the colonel," he said at long last.

He had expected protests. Instead, he got stony silence— shocked, incredulous refusal… and silence. After several seconds, Lorne was the only one out of the Atlantis personnel who was able to say anything, and even that was merely, "You can't be serious?"

"He's right," Lam said, speaking up slightly. "If we remove the symbiote now, he'd die. Waiting until he's strong enough will give the Goa'uld time to recover… and there is the chance that it could take over completely," she added, though she raised one eyebrow. "It's still got the greatest chance of success…"

Elizabeth was already shaking her head. Lam gave half a shrug.

"Then euthanasia may be the best option. It would be peaceful… and painless," she offered.

"No," the other woman said immediately, a bit more snappishly than she'd intended.

Carson tried to smooth things between them, but his heart obviously wasn't in it. "Elizabeth, I don't like this any more than you—"

Rodney broke in, pointing one accusing finger at the Scot. "May I remind you that you're the one who suggested it?"

"We may not have a _choice_."

"So we just _kill him?_"

Carson shook his head, eyes half shut. "Ask yourself if Colonel Sheppard would rather die or be a slave in his own mind. Because that is what _will_ happen." There was no uncertainty, and no room for argument.

Rodney couldn't reply… Because he knew damn well what the answer would be. He just wished it could be Sheppard telling him. He remembered, of course, what he had told the parasite in those last few moments, but then, it wasn't as if he'd actually contemplated _doing_ what he had threatened. God, he'd never be able to forgive himself, never be able to stop wondering if John would have wanted… No, you know what? _Screw_ that, he wished they weren't in a situation where they had to make this choice. It's not like he _wanted_ to leave the thing in the colonel, but… He clenched his eyes shut, resting one elbow on the table and his forehead in his palm.

"I'm inclined to agree with Dr. Beckett," Landry said, raising his voice despite the fact that no one else was talking. "We can't allow the Goa'uld to stay in Sheppard if we have no way of keeping control from it, especially after everything it's learned."

Carson winced silently, hardly able to believe which side of the argument he was on. Landry was looking around the room, taking in the opinions of the other five. No one seemed to agree, but then, no one was contradicting him… No one but—

"There must be another option." Elizabeth's voice rang out clear and defiant. "Is there a chance… at _all_…" she asked all of a sudden, "that John could survive without the symbiote?"

"Well, I… I _suppose_…" Dr. Lam seemed surprised at the notion. "But we're talking slim to none."

"Well, it's not like we've never done the impossible before," Elizabeth quipped, before turning to Carson, silently asking for his take on this.

He too was hesitant to answer. "_Ye-es_," he said after a while. "But you have to keep in mind… the odds are quite against him. He'd probably die. And it would be very painful," he added, eyes a little wide as he tried to impress upon her what she wanted them to do.

Elizabeth gave him an apologetic look. "I don't want John to suffer, especially after everything he's been through, but I don't want to give up on him without trying, either." Then she turned to General Landry. "All he needs is a chance. I know _you're_ in command here right now… but John is one of _my_ people. Please."

General Landry locked his eyes onto hers, before turning to look at the others arranged at the table one last time. He could see hope building underneath all the pain and weariness— even Dr. Beckett, he could tell, wanted this, even if he felt compelled by his oath to offer the argument against it.

Slowly, he nodded. _All I can give you is this chance,_ he thought silently. But then, that was all they ever needed, wasn't it?

* * *

He was dying. He wasn't aware, per se, he wasn't awake enough to consciously think, 'I'm dying'. Somehow, though, John knew it, or could feel it, just as much as he could feel the other one dying. There was always the likelihood that with some assistance from the outside, Sheppard could recover and the Goa'uld could as well, but then, floating in sensory deprivation and semi-consciousness, John didn't know that.

Dimly, almost as if a dream, he could recall something he thought Rodney had said… If he died, it wouldn't be on the Goa'uld's terms.

It was hard to accept that… accept dying…

But on the fringes of consciousness, he still had enough strength left to think, _you finally lost_.

* * *

"Are you ready?"

Carson looked up through the face shield, noticing that is was fogging up already— or was he really overheating that much? Part of his mind drifted back to earlier, when Rodney had tried to reassure him— Sheppard had a knack for pulling miracles out of his ass, he'd said. _Real reassuring, Rodney._

Carson resisted the urge to try to wipe at his brow with his sleeve, and nodded at last.

"Time for a miracle, Colonel," he murmured.


	35. Decision Point

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Wednesday, 19 September 2007**

A/N: Ack, I know, up really late at night (whatever happened to those updates at 4 in the afternoon?) I _wanted_ to have this one out earlier today… Blame David Hewlett. It was his DVD I spent about two hours playing with this morning. ;) (And OH MY GOD. If you haven't seen A Dog's Breakfast… just… Go. Go watch it. _Now_.)

This actually is approximately _half_ of what this chapter was going to be— there was a fairly good breaking point in there, though, and I wanted to give y'all something.

I won't guarantee the next chapter goes up tomorrow… like this one, it's fairly… _gigantic_. Friday, at the latest. Till then!

* * *

**Chapter 34: Decision Point**

* * *

"That's it?" Carson watched Dr. Lam apprehensively as she circled the surgical bed.

"That's it," she repeated, for the third time. She could understand him being so apprehensive— this hadn't been his operation, for one; she had taken the lead, and he had assisted.

The man was still distracted, even as he was replacing some of the surgical instruments, for lack of anything else to keep himself busy with— suddenly there was a hissing sound, and Lam turned to see the man shaking his hand, before pressing one of his fingers tightly with his other hand. On the tray beneath him, one of the scalpels— a clean one, luckily— now had a smear of red on it.

Lam fought to hold in a sigh of frustration, as Carson moved to the sink. "You want to take a break?" she proposed, a bit hopelessly.

And naturally, he responded with, "No, it's just a tiny scratch; besides, we've more important work to do," he added, swiftly putting an adhesive bandage over the cut before she could see just how 'tiny' it was.

"Carson." Dr. Lam stood there, staring at the man's back drolly as he returned to the surgical tools. "There's nothing more you can do for him right now."

The Scot's brow furrowed, as he turned to look at her. "Why would you say that? There's a whole bloody lot we could do for him— we _have_ to do for him—"

"I didn't say _we_," Lam replied evenly.

Even now, there were more machines, more sensors and tubes— those they couldn't add before the surgery, at any rate— both doctors took a pause to watch a technician hang a new IV bag, as more staff prepared to shift him off the surgical bed and onto a clean gurney.

It was a miracle the man had survived surgery… but it was just barely, and only because of the array of technology now arranged beside him. Carson was suddenly and very keenly aware of how very close to that brink Colonel Sheppard was right now— he had gone over it a more than once tonight… and a couple of those times, Carson hadn't been sure they would get him back.

"I said _you,_" Lam concluded at last, glancing up at the other physician, who now looked ready to rebel. "And _you_ are going to pass out pretty soon if you don't go rest. That doesn't do Colonel Sheppard any good."

_Damn it…_ As much as he hated it, she was right, even though Carson knew Lam had only thrown that last bit in there to coerce him into leaving the infirmary. As much as the man wanted what was best for John, he couldn't just shake the responsibility he felt. He decided to try one last time.

"You know how I hate to leave Atlantis?" Lam's eyebrows went up, questioningly. Carson regarded her a moment longer, before he went on. "It's not the _City_ I don't like to leave behind."

She said nothing for a moment, before reaching out and placing one hand on his shoulder, slowly turning him towards the door. "Get some sleep, Carson."

Defeated, and not in the slightest bit happy about it, Carson turned and headed for the exit. Perhaps he was listening for the sound of something going wrong, and that was why he caught the beeps of the heart monitor— the Scot spun in place, about to rush back, but Lam was already in his place at Sheppard's bedside, calling for a crash cart. He had only managed a few steps before she looked up— straight at him— and called out, "_Sleep_." The look on her face reminded him of Elizabeth—

"Sir?"

Carson jolted him out of his thoughts, and he looked over in surprise at a young technician. "Aye, what is it son?" he asked, trying to keep the irritability out of his voice. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the readings off the heart monitor, which had quieted— still not quite normal, still not quite healthy.

"I thought you'd like to know," the young man said in a quiet voice, "the Goa'uld has been destroyed."

After a few seconds, the technician excused himself and returned to his duties when Carson didn't respond. Instead, he had turned to watch the colonel's still form, and continued to do so, until at last, he turned to go.

* * *

"Why do you think you felt the urge to stay?"

"I'm not sure…"

Although it was going better than his first session with the resident therapist, Carson still couldn't pull up the answers she wanted… He didn't know quite why he'd agreed to this. _Oh yes, the order._ Where Elizabeth had let him try to take his own time, General Landry had put his foot down— probably with the encouragement of Carolyn Lam.

To be fair, Carson had hoped Dr. Heightmeyer would be able to answer a few of his own questions, though now he wondered why he had thought _she_ would know… all she knew, after all, was what he told her. And that was proving to be a struggle.

Kate hadn't given up just yet, though, and approached the subject from a different angle. "Do you think doctors should stop to rest when they grow weary? Even in the middle of treating a patient?" Carson's frown told her enough on that front, and she added, "Even if it could pose a risk to the patient's health?"

He seemed to hesitate. "Well, no… I mean, yes. I mean—" He gave an explosive sigh, deflating just a bit. "Colonel Sheppard is my patient— _my_ responsibility! It… It feels like I'm abandoning that."

It sounded ridiculous in Carson's ears, but Kate thankfully didn't laugh. She nodded solemnly, ducking her head for a moment to write something down in that notebook of hers. Then, she flipped back a page or so. "Is that why… what was it you said— 'it's not the City you hate leaving behind'? You meant, the people under your care."

Nodding a bit numbly, he said, "Aye."

She said nothing for a few seconds, before she asked an unexpected question. "Why John in particular? There are other patients…"

"Why Colonel Sheppard?" Carson repeated, almost incredulously. "Why else? Look at what the man's gone through, because of— because of that thing." He couldn't hope that the psychologist had missed his slip-up, and from the way she was regarding him now, Carson very nearly sighed. No, she hadn't missed a thing.

For the moment, Kate didn't call him on it. Instead, she asked carefully, "May I ask, how have you been with Dr. Weir?"

"Elizabeth?" Carson frowned slightly. "Fine, I suppose… Why?… Ah," he said, as it finally clicked. "You mean, after our arguments. Better, I think. I still haven't talked to her about it, but…" He hesitated, before admitting, "…I'd like to. I think ought to apologize." Then he winced, remembering that those arguments had been before… Well, before she had known what he was talking about.

Nodding along, Kate jotted down a few words, before asking, "And Dr. McKay?"

An even longer hesitation. "Him too," he said at last. "We've been all right with one another for a while now, but we haven't really…" Hell, how did you explain this? We haven't confronted the fact that we each tried to practically kill each other while possessed by an evil alien, then tried to bite each other's heads off after. Sure, we've been all right for a while, but that was really only because we wanted the company of someone who wouldn't ask questions, and then we had to save the City. All's well, right?

Dr. Heightmeyer was watching carefully, pen poised just above paper. "You seem to still have a lot of guilt about all of this."

Carson made a sound of surprise, eyes going wide. Perhaps a bit unconvincingly, he asked, "What would make you say that?"

She smiled, and he could see pity in the expression. "You haven't wanted to talk about the time the Goa'uld spent within you, but you're more than willing to talk about everything that happened after… and yet, you're still upset with yourself. It's as though you _want_ to confess. Carson," she said all of a sudden, catching his attention, "You're not responsible for what happened. Not to Dr. McKay, not to Dr. Weir, and not to Colonel Sheppard."

"Yes, well;" glancing down at the floor, Carson could help but look a bit rueful. "I'd like to believe that."

Kate wasn't to be swayed, though. "You were being controlled. It deliberately took you because it knew you could take it to Atlantis— it didn't come to the City _because_ of you." Her voice seemed to become a bit more intense, her words more firm. "You _cannot_ take responsibility for its actions."

"I…" God, if she only _knew!_ Making an aggrieved sound, Carson shut his eyes tightly. If only what had happened while the parasite was in him had been the worst of it! He still hated himself for everything that had happened then, everything he'd been powerless to stop— but at least he knew in his head that wasn't him, even if he couldn't accept it. "It's not _its_ actions that I'm talking about!" he said all of a sudden.

"Tell me, Carson," she said, voice steady and insistent.

Like a dam that had burst, Carson couldn't keep it in. "No, I couldn't keep it out of the City— but what about Rodney getting taken?!" The condemning words had been _his_, even if he hadn't intended them. "And worse, _Elizabeth_. I was the one who had let the Goa'uld go when it was in Colonel Sheppard. _I_ could have stopped it, then and there, but instead, I let it _go_—" By now, he was getting well and truly worked up. "And it went on to possess her, then take Sheppard a _second_ time, all of which culminates in the colonel being where he is now…"

Carson felt a pressure in his hand, and glanced down to find Kate squeezing it, comfortingly— he hadn't even seen her lean forward and take hold of it, he'd been so caught up. "It took those words from you," she said simply. "And it instilled that fear in you, then played off of it. Am I wrong?" she asked all of a sudden, when Carson looked like he didn't believe her.

And yet… he couldn't meet her challenge. He couldn't think of a way to respond— when he tried to envision it, all he felt was the alien presence in his mind again, controlling his body, stealing his life—

"You're still having trouble talking about it," she noted, guessing what he was thinking about.

He smiled, bitterly. "I get the feeling you would too, Kate."

The psychologist considered it for a moment, before she nodded, a sad smile on her own face. "Probably."

* * *

Carolyn Lam double checked her side tote— all of her personal medical equipment was there, accounted for. She had changed back into her civilian clothes. Now all that was left was to detour past the temporary quarters they had given her, and—

A familiar voice ordering the staff about in the infirmary caught her attention, and Lam ducked out of the office she had borrowed for the past few days. Waiting for him to reach a break, she walked out, eventually calling, "Carson!"

He wheeled around, and looked as though he were about to greet her, before his expression became puzzled at her attire. She held up one hand, ready to explain.

"I just wanted to tell you… I'm off."

Carson's eyebrows went up in surprise a bit. "When you stayed on after the other SGC personnel left, I thought it would be longer." It wasn't an entirely unpleasant surprise, he had to admit.

Carolyn shook her head once. "There's not really anything I can do that you couldn't… I really only wanted to stay until I knew you had recovered enough yourself," she admitted quietly. "And besides," she added, a bit louder, "I've got my own infirmary to get back to."

A soft smile came to the man's face. "I know. And I'm sorry for how I acted earlier… It was shameful." His expression changed; now it seemed to match his words.

Lam shook her head at his chagrin, though. "It was understandable."

"All the same…" Carson trailed off, noticing someone standing patiently behind Lam.

Noticing his attention had drifted away, the aforementioned turned to see— "Dr. Weir!"

Looking like a small child being caught, sneaking a cookie from the jar, Elizabeth flushed slightly. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to interrupt."

"Not at all," Carolyn assured her. "I was actually just about to head out myself."

"Well then," Elizabeth replied in stride, "it seems I arrived at the perfect time to thank you… For everything you've done here."

The earnestness in the diplomat's voice made the other woman blush herself underneath the olive tone of her skin. "You all give me too much credit," she said lightly, trying her hardest not to seem embarrassed by it. Carson wanted to grin, but figured that would just make things worse.

"You sell yourself short," he said instead.

The smile he received in turn told him that Carolyn really appreciated hearing that— things had been… somewhat awkward between them over the past few days. After all, she had stepped into his position, while he was still there. All for a reason, he had to remind himself.

Stating simply; "We needed you. With a patient that critical…" Carson added, under his breath, letting the rest hang implicitly. Lam nodded, and Elizabeth tilted her head back.

"Speaking of…"

"I guessed that was what you were here for," the Scot said, glancing over at John. The way grim expression on the woman's face confirmed it. "He's not in a good way," he told her, frankly.

Lam watched quietly, ready to slip off actually, now that she pretty much had her goodbyes done. Something had her hang back though, as Elizabeth asked, with a bit of uneasiness in her voice, "How bad is it?"

"Well, you can see he's on a respirator— his lungs aren't in good condition, especially the left one, and his diaphragm's pretty weak… Colonel Sheppard's not going to be breathing for himself for a while." Carson's mouth pulled slightly to one side in a frown at the look of displeasure on his superior's face, but she gestured for him to continue. He pointed to another machine. "That there is a heart monitor— if he goes into cardiac arrest one more time, we may have to hook him to a pacemaker, ridiculous as it sounds." He was shaking his head now. "Just one organ system after another."

"Yesterday we had to start him on dialysis," Lam put out there softly, met with a look of dismay from the other woman, and a soft sigh from the Scottish doctor.

"His liver's still working, thank God; I don't think we could have done anything for him if it failed, short of a complete transplant." He sighed; "I'm afraid that's about the only good news. And even that's not guaranteed."

Elizabeth's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"His immune system's almost completely given out," Carolyn filled in. "We've already fought off one systemic infection— and another one just turned up." She seemed to sigh herself.

Leaning back, almost in unconscious denial, Elizabeth asked, "Well, is there anything we can do for that?"

Both doctors gave a negative shake of the head. "If we get him healthy, and his body starts functioning properly again, it might heal itself…" Lam said after a moment. "But at the moment? No."

"He might as well have Acquired Immunodeficiency, for all we can do," Carson added.

Elizabeth turned to face him fully. "It's not that serious," she asked slowly; "…is it?"

"In the sense that Sheppard's immune system can recover, no it's not." The woman was barely able to keep in a loud sigh of relief. "But it _will_ have the same effect in the meantime," he had to caution, though.

Elizabeth nodded solemnly; she glanced down, lost in thought, when she noticed her watch, and her eyes widened ever so slightly. "I'm sorry," she said all of a sudden, "But I'm late for an appointment."

Dr. Lam appeared confused, as the expedition leader was already in the infirmary… Carson understood, though, and asked, "Heightmeyer?"

She nodded, and he smiled sympathetically.

"Well, go on then. Good luck with that!" he called after her retreating back. Elizabeth spun to walk backwards for a few steps, giving him a slight wave, before she turned around and was out of the infirmary. Carson continued to watch the door for a few moments, before he returned his attention to the other woman. "All right, you'd best be off as well, Carolyn." She smiled for a moment, before stepping up and hugging the Scottish doctor. He let out half a chuckle as she pulled back. "Take care of yourself."

Carolyn nodded. Then her eyes strayed to the side, and they both turned a little to see John Sheppard, still in a coma-induced peace. "Take care of _him_," she said, strangely quiet.

"That I will," he promised, in an equally small voice.

That _had_ to be enough.

* * *

"What would _you_ like to talk about?"

Kate watched patiently as Elizabeth mulled it over. They had gone over the experience of the possession— as best Elizabeth could, that was— but again, there was something that wasn't right. Maybe she wasn't beating herself up as badly as Carson had been— but then again, maybe she was hiding it very well. Kate knew that Dr. Beckett wasn't very good at concealing what he felt— Dr. Weir, on the other hand, was a politician. She had made a living being able to control and manipulate her emotions before they had come to Atlantis.

She could hope Elizabeth would bring her right to the heart of the issue, but alas, it was not to be.

"Is there something you think we should go back over?" the other woman asked, politely.

_Worst kind of patient,_ Kate thought with a secret smile.

After a moment, she picked one of the problem areas she had noticed in their first run-through, and rolled with it. "What happened with Colonel Sheppard?"

The polite, contented expression on Elizabeth's face faded, and she let out a long breath. "Colonel Sheppard… well, there was down in the chair room…" She trailed off as Kate continued to watch her expectantly. "The next time I really saw him was when the Goa'uld…" Unconsciously, her hand tightened around the armrest she was leaning on, and the psychologist nodded for her to continue. Swallowing hard, Elizabeth pressed on. "John— or, the Goa'uld, I should say… came to my office. He… it," she corrected with a sigh.

"Just tell the story as though you didn't know what was going to happen," Kate suggested.

Nodding, Elizabeth continued. "He… said he had something he needed to show me… I should have suspected something when he wouldn't tell me what—"

"Elizabeth," Kate cut in, a bit of reproach in her voice. Then, a little softer. "You trusted John. The Goa'uld abused that trust. You couldn't have predicted that."

_Just tell the story like you don't know the ending,_ Elizabeth reminded herself. "No… I suppose not," she admitted. "We were talking about Rodney, actually, in the halls, and he… he seemed like he was troubled. Very troubled," she amended., "but trying to hide it." She couldn't help the small ghost of a grin; it was so typical of John. "I tried to comfort him…" She trailed off a bit, and suddenly seemed incredibly uncomfortable continuing.

Kate could guess why, though. "You know, I do have your medical report… I know the Goa'uld entered through the membrane at the back of your throat," she remarked carefully. "Just, keep in mind… Nothing you say in here leaves this room."

Elizabeth shot her an appreciative glance, but all the same… She took a deep breath, before glancing heavenward, a bit helplessly. "He caught me off guard. We were hugging— don't misunderstand, it was a little awkward, but he seemed like he needed someone to lean on. Then before I knew it…" Elizabeth shook her head. "I tried to push him off of me, even a little roughly, but I guess I thought he had gotten caught up in the moment, and everything that was going on; that it was making him act out of sorts" she added with a short, rueful laugh.

Holding up one hand; "Thank you. That's good," Kate said, a bit softly, trying to calm some of the anger the diplomat had aimed towards herself. "Tell me… Do you blame John for you becoming host to the Goa'uld?"

Suddenly looking aghast, Elizabeth wasn't able to answer for a moment. When she was, she said, "No! What…Why… John wasn't in control of his actions!" she was finally able to get out.

Kate nodded her agreement. "No more than you were in control of the situation." She held up one finger to silence the protest the other woman tried to form. "Would you consider Colonel Sheppard strong enough to force himself on you?"

Elizabeth gaped for a second again, before she said, maybe a little vehemently, "He _wouldn't_."

"I mean physically, would he be capable—"

"_Dr. Heightmeyer!_"

"Elizabeth." The psychologist stared her down, until even Elizabeth's righteous indignation began to simmer down. "Would he or would he not?"

For a moment, the woman just watched her coolly. Then; "He would."

Unfazed, Kate continued. "And even if you had judged that the actions of the colonel couldn't have been his own, and tried to stop him, do you think the Goa'uld would have been capable of the same?"

The room became very silent and very still, as Elizabeth found herself suddenly hesitating. "Yes," she finally answered, in a whisper. A second longer, and Kate nodded, her determined expression giving way to a more tired one.

"Thank you… I'm sorry, Elizabeth, I know it's a disturbing thing to think about," she added, almost guiltily as the other woman winced silently.

"What? Oh… no," the expedition leader replied, a bit distractedly. "It just made me think…" She bit her tongue, wishing she could take back those words, but too late, Kate was intrigued, and giving up, she finished the thought. "It made me think of when the Goa'uld jumped back into John…" Her eyes found the floor.

So quick to take the blame onto themselves, Kate couldn't help but think. "It was no more your fault than it could be John's."

"I know," Elizabeth said, quietly, not looking up. "Still… it's a disturbing thing to think about," she quoted back to the psychiatric doctor. She knew John would never force himself onto her— but the Goa'uld had done exactly that to him, in _her_ body. And she was the one with the memory— Dear God, after everything she'd put that man through… "That wasn't the only thing," she remarked, almost as an afterthought. "The imprisonment—"

Kate shook her head. "Again, the parasite. You can't keep attributing its actions to yourself."

"What about Rodney?" Elizabeth suddenly demanded. "I did the exact same thing to him, and I don't have a Goa'uld to blame for it."

Not answering for a long while— nearly half a minute— Dr. Heightmeyer watched Elizabeth carefully. Again, it was an instance of the parasite having manipulated all of them, and they felt guilty for not realizing it. "You did what you thought was right," Kate said at last.

Elizabeth shook her head helplessly, obviously not believing her.

A muted sigh; "Everyone looks back and asks if they could have done something different, changed the outcome of a bad situation." Kate tilted her head, trying to catch Elizabeth's gaze. "But instead of judging your actions on the outcome, I want you to judge them on your intentions."

Elizabeth couldn't even keep in the self-deprecating smile. "You know what they say about the road to hell."

The psychologist wouldn't have any of it, though. She leaned forward. "What were you thinking?"

"I don't know," Elizabeth said, sounding weary. What _could_ she have been thinking?

"Elizabeth." The woman looked back up, to see Kate staring at her— they locked eyes for a long moment, before she reiterated her question. "What was the reason, right then and there, for imprisoning Rodney McKay?"

"…I wanted to keep the City safe," she said at last, her voice quiet.

"Did he pose a risk to that safety?"

The expedition leader hesitated. "We couldn't be sure." _And because of it…_

"Who did the evidence suggest?"

"Well…" She paused, before admitting, "It pointed to Rodney."

"And had he been host to the Goa'uld, would the containment you established have been necessary?"

Elizabeth frowned. "Yes," she said, though it was almost uncertain.

It was more an uncertainty about where Kate was leading her. She didn't have to wait long, as Kate concluded, "So, your intentions were to keep the City safe. You took reasonable actions to do this, supported by reasonable evidence. In the end, it was incorrect, but tell me: when during this whole ordeal did _you_ do something wrong?" she challenged.

"Well…"

"You _didn't_… Elizabeth, you made a _mistake_, but you _didn't_ make an error in judgment." She tried to stress this again.

Elizabeth didn't know what to say… She knew everything she had told Kate was true… And the conclusion the woman had come to was perfectly logical. But somehow, it still didn't all seem to fit. Elizabeth shook her head, prompting the other woman to sigh. "I just can't help but feel that I could have done something… differently," she said, weakly.

"…There is _always_ something you could have done differently. Don't ask yourself that," Kate said, softly. "Ask yourself if you did what was right."

"That's the thing," Elizabeth said, sounding remorseful. "I don't know."

After a few moments, Kate smiled, almost reassuringly, but holding a kind of empathetic hurt— she saw Elizabeth's pain and felt it through her. "I do."

Still, it just wasn't enough for the diplomat. As she forced a small smile, for Dr. Heightmeyer's sake, she thought, _I just wish I could be so sure_.

* * *

Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard. Air Force. Military commander of Atlantis.

Why did it seem so incongruent with the frail main, lying there on that hospital bed? Elizabeth shook her head, eyes closed, and wrapped her arms around herself. For a moment, she kept them that way, listening to the steady hum of the machines, and under that, a low thrumming that she had come to know as the sound of the City. The distant sound of the ocean , almost drowned out of the mechanical noise here. With her eyes closed, she could almost imagine the illusion of peace.

The delicate peace was quickly shattered by a distinctive, familiar voice.

"Elizabeth! I uh…" The woman in question turned to see Rodney McKay approaching hesitantly. "I didn't expect to see you here… again. So soon, I mean."

She had to smile; not all of her amusement was for the way Rodney stumbled over his words, either— he was right, she thought. She did seem to be finding her way here quite often, didn't she? But then, the fact that Rodney was there to witness it said something in and of itself…

For a while, they stood and watched their comrade together— his critical condition meant he wasn't truly able to receive any kind of visitors yet, something which had upset Teyla and openly angered Ronon. Elizabeth felt a little guilty, but that was an argument she wasn't going to win with Carson. She could, however, ignore the order herself; Rodney had obviously done the same. And she was going to have a talk with Carson, she decided.

After about perhaps a minute, the expedition leader's mind drifted back to a similar scene, a little more than a few days back, and couldn't help but smile ironically.

"Weird sense of déjà vu, huh?"

"Yeah, tell me about it," Rodney remarked, before all of a sudden, he realized what she had said, what she was _referring_ to; he practically gasped, and started floundering for something to say, to correct himself.

Elizabeth saved him by cutting him off. "It was just a joke, Rodney," she assured him, but still, the man looked a little uncomfortable. She sighed, returning her attention to the colonel. "I'm not going to let him get hurt, this time," she murmured. The last time they had been standing like this, she was watching John get handcuffed to a gurney. She hadn't been able to watch.

She was barely able to watch him, now.

"He wouldn't blame you for any of this," Rodney said, quietly, interrupting her thoughts. "Won't… _won't_ blame you for any of this," he corrected, clenching his eyes and kicking himself mentally. "Won't, because, y'know, he's gonna be just fine, back to perfect health in no time;" He didn't even seem to realize he was rambling. "Probably going to milk the sympathy card for as long as he can, actually."

Elizabeth smiled, as warmly as she could, arms still wrapped around herself. "He wouldn't blame you either."

Rodney stopped short, before smiling ironically to himself and glancing away. "No… no, sure… He's going to be all right," he suddenly reiterated, looking back up at Elizabeth.

"I don't know," she reluctantly admitted.

Letting out an incredulous laugh that sounded just a hint shrill; "You don't know, what do you mean you don't _know?_"

"Is everything all right out here?" The unmistakable brogue turned both their heads and saved Elizabeth from having to answer. Apparently, Carson had heard the two of them, and was striding in from another infirmary room. Before she could explain, though, Rodney jumped on the opportunity.

"Carson! Here, tell Elizabeth that Sheppard's going to be just fine."

The doctor hesitated, bringing a look of alarm to the other man's face. "Most of his body systems are shutting down," he said after a moment, even as Rodney gave him an inscrutable look. "He can't breathe on his own… His heart's stopped three separate times since he's had surgery…"

"And it's getting worse," Elizabeth added, gently.

"That doesn't mean anything!" Rodney's cry didn't fall on deaf ears; Elizabeth just didn't know how she could believe it any more. "Sheppard _still_ has a chance, he's still going to make it through… Hell, they said he probably wouldn't survive surgery, and yet here he is. After all that, you can't just give up!"

"I'm _not_," she retorted. "I'm not giving up on John," she repeated, with a bit more control, and a lot more hopelessness. "But he's _not_ recovering. And if it keeps like this… he's not going to survive."

Rodney predictably looked over at Carson, practically demanding that the man refute her. When the Scot said nothing, the other man shook his head, refusing to admit it. "That can't be it, that… _cannot_… be it."

"We're not saying it is," Carson said softly. "But there's not a whole lot more we can do."

"So… so what, we stop _trying?_"

"Never. But Rodney," Carson said, voice suddenly taking a note of desperation; "that may not amount to long."

The physicist turned to give his best friend a good, long look… Carson was trying his damndest to impress on the other man the reality of the situation. At last, he began to cave, and said, "He's gonna die."

Carson closed his eyes, before he shook his head. "We don't that for sure either."

"But he might. He probably will," Rodney pointed out. "And if he does, the only thing we can do is… watch him go?"

"Not the only thing."

The two men turned, starting a bit, even, to see Elizabeth standing off to the side a bit. Again, she was staring at John's still form. She almost seemed to be musing to herself, and for a long while, she didn't say anything more. Carson was just about to ask what she meant, when she turned back to them.

"I want you to wake him up. I know it may put more stress on his body, but…" She bit her lip. "Better to live for one day than to be merely alive for two."

After several seconds of silence, Carson found himself nodding his agreement. Rodney followed the movement, before he suddenly burst out asking, "Wait, he doesn't only have… one or two _days_… right??"

Elizabeth couldn't help but laugh, even if it was a bit dry, and even Carson smiled a little. "It was just a figure of speech, Rodney."

"Oh." Then, strangely enough, instead of getting insulted or upset, Rodney cracked a grin himself; maybe it was just relief that he had been wrong.

"We should probably wait for tomorrow," Carson put in, before he sobered up quite a bit. "You realize… even if I take Colonel Sheppard out of the medical coma, there's no guarantee he'll regain consciousness."

"I know." Elizabeth's expression had become somber once more. "That doesn't change my mind." She turned and let her eyes fall on the colonel one last time… "Who knows?" she intoned. "Maybe if we give him the chance to fight, his will to live can save him."


	36. Broken

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Friday, 21 September 2007**

A/N: And here we are. Hey, did you know you're only supposed to have one set of wisdom teeth? Yeah… well, I can tell you two things: part of the reason this is up late is because I spent a good deal of the morning at my dentist's office, and I have six wisdom teeth instead of four. Goodie…

I'm afraid I don't speak Czech, I just want to throw out there— and I'm kinda hoping none of you do either. 'Cause otherwise… you'll be grimacing for a bit, there.

And… we just broke 150 reviews, and have just about broken 15,000 hits (under a hundred away). So I suppose I wanted to take this moment to say… thank you. :) All of you, for coming this far with me. We don't have long to go now…

* * *

**Chapter 35: Broken**

* * *

There was, of course, the expected anxiety— the nervousness, the hope that was almost too much to have, the snappishness that came from it— Carson seemed to be doing well, but then, he understood everything that was going on much better than she or any of John's team did… Elizabeth wondered if that was more of a blessing or burden for the man.

It had to be better than it was for Rodney, though. Clichéd as it sounded, he looked as though he might wear a hole in the floor if he kept pacing like that.

Apparently, Elizabeth wasn't the only one who thought so. "Would you please stop?" Teyla asked pointedly.

"I'm sorry, am I distracting you from something?" The edge in his voice wasn't for her, they all knew, but Teyla bristled just the same.

"Rodney," Carson admonished, not bothering to look back over his shoulder while he removed the Colonel's current IV drip, and handed it to a nurse. "Don't make me throw you out," he warned.

He was met with disparaging sound. "Big deal." Despite Rodney's sullenness, Carson said nothing, even when the other man began to complain. "He's not even waking up."

"Yes, well, I warned you it wouldn't be immediate. He may not regain consciousness for another few days."

Elizabeth took an idle step forward, surreptitiously placing herself between the two men before they could start anything.

A glance around the room told her the feelings were mutual… Ronon was predictably silent, but he leaned against the wall with his eyes narrowed. Teyla still looked angry with Rodney— they were all on edge. Secretly, she knew, they'd all been hoping for some kind of miraculous display of health— twitching of the fingers or fluttering of the eyelids… _something_. Some kind of response to being taken off of the coma-sustaining sedatives.

Teyla glanced away all of a sudden. Elizabeth took the other woman's hand and squeezed it gently, prompting the Athosian to turn back and face her. It was a very muted smile that Teyla gave Elizabeth, though. They were all feeling the strain of the past several days, and taking it out on each other. It didn't help that the small room was crowded by a few extra figures, though.

As the Scottish doctor finished up, he came to stand on Elizabeth's other side. "Are the armed guards really necessary?" Carson glanced almost scathingly across one of the new fixtures of the infirmary— the marine in question shifted uncomfortably.

"Sir…" he said, stiffly. "There have been cases of a Goa'uld being removed, but their mind—"

"Has superceded the host's, and remains in the body, I know. As I understand, that hasn't happened for years," he shot back, although inwardly, he couldn't help the fear that accompanied the suggestion. Just another horrible possibility, another possible outcome that could end up being reality.

"I'm not thrilled about it either," Elizabeth cut in. "But General Landry requested it personally in our last conversation."

The marine looked flushed with either embarrassment or shame, but he didn't move. "The General doesn't want to take any chances, sir. If it ends up that the colonel's the Goa'uld now…" His hand tightened on his sidearm unconsciously. "He wants enough force present to take him down. Quickly."

The Scot just made a disparaging noise. "He's got three gunshot wounds to the chest, and lost half the blood in his body. A well timed slap could take him down."

A movement from the corner drew all of their attentions, and the marine paled a little as Ronon pulled away from the wall. Standing fully upright, he towered over the younger man, who unconsciously leaned back.

Ronon didn't say or do anything, though. He simply turned and walked out of the room, presumably leaving the infirmary as well.

Elizabeth found she had turned to watch him go, and this time it was Teyla who offered the reassuring grip of her hand to steady the other woman. Carson had returned himself to attending to the colonel, with the help of his nurse, and Rodney checked his watch. Elizabeth watched him out of the corner of her eye, raising one eyebrow delicately as he let out a sound of exasperation.

"Missed something?"

At her careful question, Rodney eyed the diplomat, who composed her face into an unreadable mask. "I've got an appointment soon."

Teyla offered him a tiny smile. "You should go then. It will help," she stated simply.

The scientist regarded her for a moment, before he nodded once, somewhat appreciatively. Then his expression turned suspicious again as he looked back and forth between Carson and Elizabeth.

"Neither of you would happen to know anything about Heightmeyer moving my session up to this morning, would you?"

"No," Carson replied flatly, once more not even turning around. Elizabeth said nothing, and if he thought her silence gave something away, at least her expression didn't.

"_Hm._" Rodney's lips pinched together with displeasure. "Well… I think Ronon had the right idea," he quipped dryly, and pointed towards the door. A moment later, he was gone as well.

The expedition leader let her head hang— she felt Teyla take her other hand, and gently rest her forehead against hers; it was strangely comforting. When she opened her eyes, though, she saw a distinct sadness in the woman's smile, and was pretty sure hers mirrored it. Thinking that made her smile widen just a hint, but the pain-lines around the edges of her eyes seemed to deepen as well.

Surprising herself a little, Elizabeth released Teyla's hands and wrapped her arms around the woman. She wasn't the only one, it seemed, but it took only a moment before both eased into the hug.

They stood there for what seemed like a long time, embracing one another; each trying to lend the other as much strength and support as they had to give.

* * *

Kate Heightmeyer rubbed at one of her temples with her thumb, the other fingers of her hand cradling her forehead.

Dr. McKay was one of the few members of the expedition who didn't outright refuse to attend psychiatric sessions. Most people rejected the idea of letting someone 'in their head' and fought tooth and nail to stay out of her office, even at the expense of their own health. Rodney, on the other hand, was quite familiar with therapy and psychologists. One might say he was comfortable with them, even.

That by no means meant he was _cooperative,_ though. Oh, no.

"So, what do you think, Kate, normal or not normal to be capable of shooting one of your best friends?" he asked in a mock conversational tone, barely concealing self-deprecation.

Apparently, the man's hypochondria didn't just limit itself to physical medicine. He was ready to diagnose himself here, too. So much so that Rodney biased his own opinions of himself, and then related all of his answers in a skewed fashion— and it was _not_ making this go any easier for Heightmeyer.

Kate took a deep breath, trying to steel up her patience for one more go. "Did you see it as shooting the Goa'uld, or shooting Colonel Sheppard?"

Rodney let out a high pitched laugh. "Doesn't much matter now, does it?"

"It _does_, Rodney," she assured him. "You were trying to stop an enemy that was attacking the City and trying to hurt the people in it."

"Mm, yes." He smiled at her, and it was an unpleasant thing. "Pity Sheppard got in the way. Oh well!" he added in an almost sing-song voice.

Ignoring this remark, which Kate knew full well was untrue— if it was, Rodney wouldn't be beating himself up over it— "If you had the chance to ask John," she said, continuing as though she hadn't heard him, "what do you think he would have wanted you to do? Save him or save everyone else?"

Rodney rolled his eyes, wearing that cynical, I-know-everything-you-idiot smile. "Oh, I think it probably would've been something to the effect of, 'please don't shoot me… _repeatedly'_."

"_Rodney._" The sudden sharpness of Kate's tone caught him off guard, and for a moment, the scientist's expression became startled, and unguarded. "You can't do this thinking you already have all the answers! That's why I'm _here_, to _help_ you, to help you figure this out and sort through what you're feeling. But I can't do a thing if you've already judged yourself guilty!"

Shifting uncomfortably under her intense stare, Rodney suddenly found a very interesting piece of fuzz on the carpeting. He heard Kate sigh, and it was no longer an expression of frustration, but a tired, quiet sound.

"Why don't we talk about something else for a while," she suggested, when he said nothing.

"All right," Rodney remarked, still not quite meeting her gaze. "Sounds good."

The woman nodded slowly. "You haven't talked much about how John is now."

"I haven't?" he asked, somewhat innocently.

"No," Kate replied, not losing stride.

He gave half a shrug. "Huh."

She said nothing for a while, and he saw her pen scrawl across the notebook in front of her. While still writing, she asked, "Tell me about his condition."

Blinking a couple times; "What, you don't know?"

Kate glanced up with a smile. "I do. I want to hear what you think, though."

"Oh. Right. Well, uh… he's not in very good shape."

"Do you think he can make it?"

"Of course he can!" Rodney sounded almost offended, perhaps on John's behalf. It would have been amusing, if Kate hadn't been so concerned. "He's been through worse… I'm sure… at some point in his life, anyways."

Fighting the urge to shake her head, Kate jotted down a few more notes. "What do you feel about the decision to bring him out of his coma?"

Rodney fumbled for words for several long moments. Leaning forward, Kate tried to be encouraging.

"Does it make you… upset? Relieved?"

He seized upon that one. "Relieved! Yes, relieved." His tone was not convincing in the slightest. She gave him a disbelieving look. "What? Come on, Sheppard's going to wake up and be okay, and… of course I'm relieved."

She continued to watch him warily. "This will be an opportunity to talk to Colonel Sheppard."

"What?" It wasn't that surprising a revelation, so his reaction made one of Kate's eyebrows disappear into her bangs. "I mean… yes… I suppose it will." Rodney's attempts to compose himself were failing as Kate effectively hounded him.

"What do you think he'd say?" This time, Rodney didn't answer, instead resolving his expression into a featureless tableau. Kate thought she could see where this was going, and it was with a hint of resignation that she asked, "…Do you _want_ to talk to John?"

"…Of course."

"I see." There seemed to be a weariness in her voice. "I wonder… are you more afraid he might not wake up… or that he might?"

Rodney looked livid all of a sudden, and stated hotly, "Of course I want him to wake up, why the hell _wouldn't_ I?"

Kate held up one hand to calm the man. "I never said you didn't. That _doesn't_ mean," she added with one raised eyebrow, "that you can't also be afraid of it."

With his mouth hanging open like it was, Rodney was able to pull of a fairly good imitation of a nutcracker, especially as he snapped his jaw shut a second later. Suddenly trying to brush the whole thing off, he asked, in a not-entirely-convincing way, "Why would I be afraid of Sheppard waking up?"

_Why indeed…_ Kate bowed her head, using the notebook in her lap as the excuse, but inwardly, she felt like she was just… fumbling about blindly. She could see what was wrong, but what could she do if he wouldn't let her help him? _Who do you think you're kidding, Rodney?_

* * *

"Can't you get one of the marines to do this?"

Radek began humming to himself, looking over the figures on the tablet he was holding. "Marines cannot assist with repairs."

"Then one of the _other_ scientists!"

A steady stream of complaining and whining had been coming from behind the Czech for the past five minutes, and he suspected it would continue until they got to the infirmary. Glancing up over his shoulder, he saw Rodney McKay making a face, and turned back to the front, feeling a wonderful sense of content.

"If were not for you, I would not need pushing. Now quit bleating and push faster. Are not getting paid by the hour."

Rodney shook his head, muttering, "Fascist tyrant. What do they teach children behind the Iron Curtain?" Still, he was behind the wheelchair, and Radek had to admit, for someone who was perpetually out of shape, they were making good time.

And to be fair, he was perfectly capable of wheeling the thing himself, even with his wrist in a cast— the cast that kept him off of crutches— but he wasn't going to ignore a chance to press Rodney into temporary servitude.

In fact, the stop at the infirmary only took a few minutes. Radek quickly wheeled himself off to double check the systems and equipment, which all turned out to be in working order. But _had_ any of it been malfunctioning, he was sure he would have needed the other man's help, which justified bringing him along. Well, that and getting Rodney back for much of the hassle he'd given Radek over the past years. _More_ than justified.

Smiling smugly, Radek rolled back into the main infirmary, only to have the grin disappear from his face. Rodney wasn't where he had left him… for a moment, Zelenka wondered if perhaps Rodney had just up and left out of irritation, before something occurred to him. Turning around and heading for the back of the infirmary again, Radek caught sight of an open door, beyond which the lights were dimmed. He wheeled in, pausing to let his eyes adjust, watching the lights of the many machines set up here. Unavoidably, he found his attention shifting to the sole occupant of this room, entirely forgetting what had brought him here in the first place.

Suddenly, the sound of Rodney calling his name out in the main infirmary caught his attention. Before he had time to reply, the other scientist had stuck his head in the door, frowning. "Ah. There you are."

Radek spun the chair. "I was looking for you. Thought you might have left."

The physicist grimaced. "I had to use the _bathroom_. What are you doing?"

"Trying to make this trip up here for something."

Rodney made an indeterminate sound, neither approval or rejection, but he did step all the way in. He glanced around the room, as though trying to find something else to focus on besides the bed at its center, but his eyes kept being drawn back to the colonel.

The other scientist followed his glance, then shook his head and made a clucking sound with his tongue. "Sad."

"Yeah." The short, clipped answer made his brow furrow, and he turned to look at Rodney.

The Canadian scientist was practically fidgeting… Radek felt a deep seated desire to mock the man for it, but something was telling him all was not right. Instead of finding Rodney's antics to be childish and amusing, his lips pressed into a thin frown, and he pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, regarding his colleague.

"What is the matter with you? Small insects have invaded your clothing?" The remark, when it finally came, was dry and unamused. "Infestation of alien lice, maybe… Should call for bio-containment team?"

"_No,_" Rodney replied, rather waspishly. "Look, can we just get out of here?"

Radek blinked once, unable to do anything else for a moment out of surprise. Rodney sounded almost… _petulant_. Not all that unusual, actually, but it generally came up when he was doing something he viewed as unpleasant or potentially harmful to his person. Baffled by the sudden change in attitude, Radek's reply was a little clipped; "We just got here," he pointed out. When Rodney rolled his eyes and looked as though he were about to snark back, he added, "Why do you want to leave so badly?"

"I… it's none of your business!" The pitch of his voice went up a little as he got defensive.

Zelenka frowned at him; "I'd think you at least would want to see Colonel Sheppard," he muttered.

"We _did_ see Colonel Sheppard," Rodney shot back. "We came, we saw him, he's not awake, let's _go._" And he gestured to the door expectantly.

There was a long silence between the two of them, all the while, Rodney was standing there impatiently by the door to the room. At length, he asked, "Why don't you?"

"Why don't I what?"

"Want to see Sheppard." He watched the other scientist carefully, gauging his reaction. "Too disturbing?"

Growing defensive again; "I never said I didn't want to see Sheppard!" Then his brain caught up with what he had just heard. "_Disturbing?_ Who said anything about me being _disturbed?_"

"_A tobě ar ne?_" Radek muttered under his breath.

Continuing as though he had missed Zelenka's comment entirely; "This is starting to sound like that psych session all over again. Can you believe Heightmeyer said I was _afraid_ of Sheppard waking up?" he demanded all of a sudden.

Afraid…? Not how he'd have put it, but it explained a lot, actually. Instead of voicing this, Radek just raised his eyebrows. "Imagine that."

Rodney let out a derisive snort. "Yeah, I know. Some crap about latent guilt or something."

The other man gave half a shrug. "You _are_ avoiding him."

"I am _not_." Practically glaring daggers at Radek, Rodney huffed once. "Maybe I just don't get off on seeing one of my friends half-dead on life support," he snapped, before he seemed to realize what he had just said and a bit of the furor in his expression died.

"That is what this is all about?" Zelenka made a noise of disbelief.

Rodney started a bit, before staring at Radek incredulously, like he had just danced on top of someone's grave or something equally unabashed.

The engineer seemed unimpressed. "You expect me to believe you want to leave because you are squeamish?" It would make some sense, if Radek didn't know the other scientist better. For all he was a hypochondriac, Rodney wasn't skittish about being around people who were hurt. In fact, they were all remarkably well-adjusted to it after these past few years, a fact which was a bit frightening in and of itself.

Besides, if what Rodney was saying was true, why hadn't he shown any aversion to being around Radek?

For a moment, Rodney's mouth was gaping open, before he snapped it shut with an audible _click_. Then; "_Some_ of us want to give the injured their peace." It was a lie, and a pathetic one at that, but Rodney lifted his chin defiantly all the same. It very nearly made the other man laugh.

"I am half crippled; you have no problem terrorizing me," Radek pointed out instead.

Rodney leaned back, rolling his eyes, his expression cynical. "_Please_. That is _entirely_ different."

"It is the _same_." Radek leaned forward in his wheel chair. "None of this bothers you?"

"No!"

The Czech threw his hands up in the air, before he started into a stream of frustrated English and Czech; somewhere in there, Rodney thought he caught "stubborn, arrogant man—" then something he was pretty sure was an insult to his intelligence.

"All _right!_ I'll admit, it's _disturbing_," Rodney said, cutting off Radek's rant, and the other man relaxed a bit. "Seeing you like this, and remembering actually _doing_ that to you—" he waved one hand vaguely at the wheelchair— "and then trying to convince myself it wasn't really _me_." He seemed actually… _upset_…

"It _wasn't_ you," Radek reminded him, a bit more patiently.

Rodney appeared not to have heard, or maybe he just ignored the comment. "It's really, _really_ disturbing. But, I mean, it's not like I won't have to live with the memory of… of this, too," he added, staring at Sheppard in an almost enthralled way, macabre though it was. He let out a long breath, hanging his head.

Drumming his fingers silently across the tablet in his lap, the Czech watched Rodney to see if he would be any more forthcoming about what was bothering him. "You should perhaps talk to Dr. Heightmeyer again," he suggested, when the man wasn't.

"Yeah," Rodney replied, not looking up, his tone acerbic. "I _should_."

"…You're not going to, are you?"

It seemed the other man had had enough, both of Radek pressing him, and the presence of the Sheppard, technically out of his coma but still so lifeless. "Good night, Radek." And with that, he jammed his hands into his pockets and stalked out.

Radek just watched him go, before he mumbled something to himself in his native language. _Be that way, if you must_. He reached out and spun the left wheel of his chair, turning in the same direction. _It's only going to get harder when he awakens._ A moment after, though, as he rolled silently out into the hall, Radek had to wonder if he shouldn't have said 'if', instead.

* * *

"Well, he's showing some improvement," the nurse provided.

Carson knew she was trying to cheer him, for what it was worth, and forced a smile. "A small improvement was to be expected— one less set of drugs in his system." Unspoken was the fact that it hardly mattered, what with everything _else_ the poor man was on.

But a small improvement seemed to come at cost— they were given a half second's warning, a squealing alert that Carson wasn't even able to identify before John Sheppard began to have a seizure, something the doctor had half expected and feared.

The team was already swarming around the bed, and for the moment, Carson stepped back to observe. There wasn't much they could do, except sedate him again. There wasn't much _he_ could do. Not now… not period.

It seemed that while the colonel's mind was trying to awaken, it simply couldn't handle the dysfunction of the man's body…

Suddenly, Carson's eyes went wide as he watched the contorting figure on the bed— "Stop!" In an instant, his hand was on the arm of the nurse injecting the contents of a syringe into the port in Sheppard's IV. His eyes were on the man's face, though, and suddenly, the nurse and both techs had paused, watching as well, and shortly after, the seizure stopped of its own accord. The med staff's focus never shifted, though.

Because for just a second, Sheppard had opened his eyes.


	37. Apropos

**Ophidia  
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic  
Tuesday, 25 September 2007**

A/N: After all this, I have only one thing to say… I think I make more jokes about Sheppard's sexuality than all other characters combined. And I honestly have no clue why.

* * *

**Chapter 36: Apropos**

* * *

It was gradual—

Both the improvement, and the decline.

They could see it now. That never-ending stillness was gone, replaced by what seemed to be a state of unconscious distress. Just a shiver here, a twinge there… A faster pulse and an even lower blood pressure, and Carson was amazed sometimes that the blood was even getting to John's extremities any more. He was losing weight, and at a noticeable rate now. And that damned infection, they'd thought they had fought it off, but it just kept rearing its ugly head…

They were coming in now more often. Without a team to go out with, Teyla and Ronon were hardly gone, except perhaps to sleep; Elizabeth seemed to find trivial reasons to check the state of the infirmary. Even Rodney visited more often than was normal, though he had a habit of disappearing when the colonel started to stir— and stir he did, even reaching semi-consciousness a few times, but each time was hardly long enough to do more than be surprised before he was gone again.

It was progress. But one had to wonder if it would come fast enough… especially when Carson revealed that he wouldn't be attending to John's care any more— realistically, he knew, he should have distanced himself from the start. It didn't keep him from stopping in between rounds on the floor, but still…

It was on one of these rounds, when Carson was doing his final sweep of the infirmary before heading off to bed when he found more than one half-conscious person in Sheppard's room.

Smiling to himself, the Scot leaned against the doorjamb, exchanging a conspiratorial glance with the marine who was standing in the opposite corner before turning to the closer figure. "Ronon. …Ronon!"

The Satedan opened one eye but gave no response.

"You should go sleep in your quarters."

"I wasn't sleeping."

Of course not. This argument was hardly new by this time, and Carson could no longer be annoyed with it, merely exasperated. "I could always have one of the technicians sedate you, then cart you off," he threatened, with mock severity.

"I'm sorry— excuse me," a nurse cut in, trying to slide past the doctor, who quickly apologized and moved for her.

Ronon, meanwhile, seemed to find the idea amusing and let out a somewhat disparaging snort, drawing Carson's attention back to him. "You could _try_," he corrected.

The doctor just shook his head. "You need your sleep."

"If I need to, I'll sleep here."

"I know you all think the staff won't call you if he wakes up," Carson started, "but you have to believe we will. God, man, if you don't get some real rest soon, you'll be so exhausted you wouldn't notice the colonel wake even if he were to leap up and start doing an Irish jig."

A good deal of that was lost on the other man, whose brows were knitted together but was grinning anyways. He then raised one eyebrow and seemed to lean further back into his seat, daring Beckett to try and move him from it.

Carson just rolled his eyes. "All right, if that's the way it's going to be—"

A sound from the unconscious colonel interrupted, and for a moment, all eyes were on Sheppard. The nurse glanced up apologetically, after she finished administering a syringe of some medicine into a port in the back of the man's right hand.

"He gets restless when we do that. It probably feels funny," she explained, giving a slight shrug of one shoulder.

The groan didn't die, though, instead escalating from barely audible to something a bit more sharp and distinctly strangled, probably from the fact there was a tube going down his throat. Suddenly, his whole body was wracked with a cough that one wouldn't have thought possible from such a debilitated person.

Ronon was on his feet and at the bedside before Carson could even get all the way in the door.

The four of them— even the guard had stepped up to help— managed to hold the colonel in place and keep him from hurting himself; meanwhile the nurse was talking steadily.

"Colonel, you need to stop coughing, you've been intubated, and that's why it feels like there's something stuck in your throat." Apparently, her voice had the calming effect desired, as the cough died down, with Ronon and the marine stepping back to let the medical professionals examine the colonel more closely. "It doesn't look like he dislodged the tube," the nurse was saying. "Although… hello!"

Her eyes widened in mild surprise; Sheppard's were open again. And this time, they didn't flutter closed. Carson watched in amazement as well, forgetting to actually talk to the man for a moment, waiting to see if he would slip back into unconsciousness.

"Colonel Sheppard… can you hear me?" For a moment, it seemed he hadn't, until his eyes slid to one side, and very slowly, he nodded.

"Sheppard!"

John's head actually turned so he could see past Carson, where Ronon was standing, wide grin on his face. The best thing they'd seen so far, he tried to smile himself— impossible to see past the tube and mask, but there was the softer expression around the corners of his eyes that made all these past days of worrying about him waking worth it.

And as much as Carson wanted to immediately begin talking with the man, he knew he had one other duty he needed to perform first.

He quickly tapped at his radio, calling quietly for their expedition leader, while Ronon stepped up to talk with Sheppard. While Carson waited for Elizabeth to respond, he snapped his fingers softly at the nurse. He mouthed the words 'pen and paper' at her, miming the both of them, and she nodded. Suddenly, there was noise coming through his radio again— "Elizabeth!"

Ronon meanwhile had a hand gripping Sheppard's shoulder softly. "Took your time," he remarked, trying not to let his overflowing relief show through.

John pretended to look incensed, as well he could; he couldn't exactly defend himself verbally, though even if he _could_, it probably wouldn't have made for a very convincing argument. At that moment, the nurse reappeared with a yellow legal pad and a pen which she uncapped and offered to Sheppard. John tried to reach up and take it, but he couldn't get his arm more than six inches off the side of the bed, and even then, his hand swayed around far too much for him to have gotten hold of the stupid thing.

Teeth clenching along with a sudden knot forming in his gut, Ronon watched the nurse patiently take the sickly man's hand in hers, first placing the pen in it then closing his fingers around the instrument. The pad of paper she placed next to him on the bed, then put his hand on it. Sitting up at enough of an angle, John seemed to be able to see the pad well enough to make it work.

All the same, Ronon hated seeing this. He realized his grip on Sheppard's shoulder must have unconsciously tightened, as he felt the man try to shift beneath his hand, and John glanced over at him. From where he sat, Ronon thought the other man looked worried or confused.

Forcing the grin back to his face; "So, you gonna stick around this time?"

Blinking away his confusion, the amused look started to return. With his hand resting on the paper, it was just steady enough, and John began to scratch something out.

Carson was, in the meantime, relating the news in an oddly tight voice, not daring to get too excited.

"He's awake."

"_Oh?_" Elizabeth seemed pleased at the information, though there was a hint of resignation to her voice; it was hard to tell, when all she said was, "_Again?_"

Carson exhaled quickly, trying to think of how to say this. "No. I mean, really, _actually_ awake."

"_Oh my… That's wonderful!_" Suddenly, there was a newfound enthusiasm there that Carson wasn't sure he'd heard in… _weeks_. He almost hated to say what he did next.

"Aye, but I'm not sure how long it will last," he warned, silently implying that she'd better hurry.

"_I understand_," she assured him, and he knew that she did, even the implicit bits.

"Could you contact Teyla and Rodney?"

"_Of course,_" she agreed.

"Right… so," Carson started again, clicking off his radio. He looked expectantly between the two teammates.

A wry grin was shot his way from Ronon, who had pulled up his seat and was now straddling it backwards. John was too busy with whatever he was writing— glancing over his frail form, Carson noticed the guard had shifted from his corner; standing, facing the colonel full on. Still, silent, but one hand rested against the hilt of his M9. The physician stared at the weapon for a long moment, before he glanced down.

Despite his obvious joy in seeing his team leader aware again, Ronon had his pistol too. This he didn't want to admit, but… Carson could see the reasoning behind it too. It went against so much of what he believed in and was trained in but still…

John had finished his message by then, only about half a line, but even that was tiring for him. He tried to reach over and pick up the pad, hand it to Ronon to read, but only managed to get a corner up off the bed sheets.

Deftly, the larger man reached over and scooped it up, taking only a moment to read the thing.

'Depends. Am I gonna live?' Ronon had to check the impulse to curl his hand into a fist and crumple the edge of the paper. The question was innocuous and innocent enough— one might have thought Sheppard was making a joke out of it.

But Ronon knew John Sheppard. And his scowl told John what he thought of his question.

"You'd better." The threat hung, unspoken but present. He laid the pad of paper onto Sheppard's stomach.

A dry, muffled laugh bubbled up in John's throat, shaking his chest weakly; he could just imagine Ronon threatening him with death if he didn't survive. The laughter turned to a strangled cough, impeded by the chest tube, and Carson— attention recaptured— quickly shooed Ronon away from John's side, missing the dirty look he received in turn.

"Stop it, now, he's little strength enough. We shouldn't be getting him excited." All the same, he couldn't hide the pleased look on his face, which only seemed to deepen when he took a good look at the man. "Hello, there, Colonel."

He got a feeble wave, and honestly, that about summed up John's condition: feeble, but aware.

"How much of the past two weeks do you recall?"

A slight shake of his head. _Not much_, he seemed to want to say. 'Bits', he scratched out on the legal pad, before pausing. He seemed to struggle to recall something, apparently not making much progress on that front.

Carson held up one hand; "You've been in and out of consciousness for several days now, though, this _is_ the first time you've stayed awake long enough to communicate."

John looked up at him, patiently— expectantly. Even as weak as he was, he was still fairly sharp. In fact, he seemed to be doing quite well, so Carson could only hope that he was ready to hear what it was he obviously wanted the doctor to tell him, and that it wasn't just 'morning-amnesia' so to speak. The last thing Sheppard needed was more stress. When the gaze didn't fall away— by now, Ronon was staring up at him too— Carson wanted to sigh. It seemed he didn't have a choice, then, did he?

"You're in critical condition," he started. "You do have three gunshot wounds to your torso and upper abdomen, two of which were quite severe. A good deal of your organ systems have shut down or are on the edge of failing. Now, we're fairly sure you can completely recover," he rushed to add, seeing that John had started writing something down, looking a bit worried.

It wasn't what he had expected to see though. 'Goa'uld?' the paper read.

Ronon quickly and firmly asserted, "It's dead."

"It's been removed," the Scot clarified.

John nodded, before resting his head back against his pillow; his expression and his whole body seemed to relax with the relief that stemmed from that one statement. But it wasn't just that, Carson decided after a moment; anyone could see the man was exhausted. That was why he began to protest when John leaned forward again to start writing on the legal pad.

"You should rest now, you've been through quite an ordeal and can't expect to be anywhere close to full form—" Ronon cut off Beckett's tirade with a touch to the arm. The doctor let the words die in his throat, seeing what Ronon saw— John was obviously ignoring him, and still writing something.

That didn't mean he didn't frown. He was thrilled to see the colonel awake and trying to stay with them, but he hardly wanted the man to push himself so far it would set him back again. Though he hardly seemed to have a say in the matter.

"What does it say?" he asked as Ronon leaned forward to get a glimpse of what the colonel had written, sounding for all intents like he was sulking.

"'Scars'." He shot a pensive look up at the smaller man— he knew something about scars, even if his were gone now. Maybe it was unfair to Beckett, but his expression almost demanded assurance that Sheppard's would be too.

Beckett held up both hands— more to reassure John or stave off Ronon, the Satedan didn't know, but turned to address the former. "Since we caught the scars when they were relatively new and were able to treat them properly, yours, and everyone else's will completely heal."

Ronon, whose right hand had never left John's shoulder, gave it yet another squeeze— Carson shot him a disapproving look, probably thought he was giving him a bruise or something, to which Ronon replied with a smirk. He returned his attention to Sheppard, who seemed grateful for the connection. He pulled his left hand up, dragging mostly, to let his fingers rest loosely over Ronon's. Then the Satedan found the other man staring at him, and held that stare until Sheppard finally had to give in to sleeplessness. Even unable to speak, though, the message was clear.

He wasn't exactly used to expressing these things out loud; neither was Sheppard. But he made no move to pull away, even as the latter fell unconscious. He wasn't going to leave him.

* * *

It had been two more days, and John was finally starting to feel he was making some progress.

For one, he was staying awake long enough to actually pester the doctors about his condition. He was sure it would have gone faster if he could do more than a handful of words at a time, though, and it was too easy for the medical staff to ignore the most pointed questions or pretend they didn't understand his chicken scratch. As Carson had flat-out told him earlier that day, they didn't want to put any unnecessary stress on him— he was just going to have to trust that thing were under control.

Oh, some of it was obvious. For one, the chest tube forcing air in and out of his lungs, which clearly meant he was on a respirator. It took a little while, but John figured he was getting used to it now. That also meant he was getting any and all nutrition through an IV. All in all, he guessed it was fairly standard, for someone who'd been in a coma— for over a week, best he could figure.

But then there were all sorts of little tubes and ports sticking out all over him, some of which he didn't want to know about, like the one at the right side of his throat; others he wished he _didn't_ know about. Then there were the two little ports on his forearm, the tubes of which were both connected to a machine off to his right. He hadn't had a chance to ask about _those_, but he could only guess that that red stuff running through the tubes was _blood_.

Adding to the puzzlement, a young male doctor came in shortly after John awakened this time. It wouldn't have been so strange— it was the same man who had been there yesterday night when John was up once, but he had figured then that it was just the on-call doc, and Carson had gone off to bed. But he was pretty damn sure it was morning now… He tilted his head quizzically at the man as he checked him over, before glancing to his left where Teyla sat.

"This is Dr. Wright," she provided, and said doctor gave an idle wave without looking up from his clipboard.

He quickly wrote, 'Carson?' on the scratch pad, and Teyla shook her head, giving pause before she answered.

She was wondering how to tell him, when the man in question came past the door, catching John's attention and making him struggle to sit up. When Wright frowned as his patient began squirming, Teyla quickly placed a hand on John's chest to ease him back down.

Teyla was about to call after Carson anyways, just to get John to calm himself down, but the short little struggle had attracted his attention anyhow, and he leaned in the door a little ways.

"Ah, how are we doing?"

"Just finishing up," Wright assured him, putting his stethoscope on and resting the diaphragm against John's chest.

The cold of the metal made John flinch, which in turn made the various wounds across his chest light up like someone was holding a branding iron to them. _What could he possibly be listening to? I've got a tube down my throat breathing for me,_ John thought and none-too-kindly, but it was soon over, and Wright pulled away, replacing his 'scope around his neck and jotting down a few more notes.

When he departed, Carson stepped into the room— before he or Teyla got a chance to say anything, the colonel cut in with a gesture, wanting to know what that was all about. John jerked his head towards the door, where Dr. Wright had gone, before giving Beckett a questioning look with his brow furrowed.

He said nothing for a moment. Then; "I'm only overseeing your care, not administering it myself."

John tried not to scowl at the doctor; instead, he reached for the pen, noticing with a bit of pride that he was able to retrieve it without Teyla's help this time. Once he was finished, he pushed the paper towards Beckett.

'Feel better knowing you were my doctor.'

"…I'll still be here if you need me, son. Your routine care will just be handled by someone else, though." He said the words with a calm assurance, but the fact that Beckett had given his medical care over to another doctor seemed to say something of its own.

John watched Carson for a moment, before he rolled his head back and closed his eyes. The Scot exchanged a glance with Teyla, both seeming to think the colonel had had enough and was going back to sleep, when John tilted his head forward and started on the scratch pad. _Just needed a moment's rest_, the doctor thought, a smile warming his expression. He could feel the warmth dissipate as he bent to read John's message: 'That bad, huh?'

Carson's smile didn't disappear, but he closed his eyes for a moment.

It was Teyla who replied; "John," she started, taking his hands in hers. "You are not well."

He looked between the two of them for a long moment, before pulling one hand away. Both watched him scrawl the words 'I want to know…'; Of course he wanted to know. Beckett supposed, with a silent sigh, that Colonel Sheppard could handle the information fairly well. It didn't mean he should have to, though.

Then John had finished, adding the word 'everything' to the rest of the message. After a pause, he went back and underlined the last word, before staring pointedly at Carson again.

The corner of the doctor's mouth pulled to one side in a frown, but he nodded, regardless.

* * *

"That's right… keep coughing," the nurse encouraged him— it was a pleasant change from the usual instructions he would get. It was usually more along the lines of 'Knock it off, before you cough up the chest tube!' then looking at him like he was an idiot.

Oh, and, wait, pleasant? _Silly me,_ John thought. He would have grated it out aloud, but he was in the midst of a coughing spasm so powerful he felt that he might just bring a chunk of his lung up with the tube. As it was, he felt like he was choking, despite the fact that he could still breathe through it.

At _last_, the damned thing slid free, and John fought to take a deep breath. Instead, he kept hacking, doubled almost completely over; dimly, he was aware of someone patting him on the back after a few moments, and eventually, he was able to calm his breathing back to a sand-papery rasp.

"Your throat will be sore for a good period of time," the nurse told him, and John glanced up at her with an inscrutable look on his face. Used to it, she continued; "It may feel for a little while like your breathing has gotten worse, but that's just because your lungs have gotten accustomed to having something else doing the work for them. It'll pass." And with that, she smiled and went to remove the respirator tube from the room.

"Yeah," John agreed aloud, dismayed at the sound of his voice— for a moment, he rubbed at his throat, before adding, "no sweat. I'll be out of here in no time."

An amused sound came from his left. The colonel looked over to see Dr. Weir wearing that 'Who you think you're you kidding?' look.

"He can't keep me here forever," John insisted; if he couldn't wear Carson or Dr. Wright down, he knew he could at least try and wheedle some sympathy from Elizabeth. The argument was somewhat weakened, though, by the fact that he sounded— and _was_— completely out of breath.

The woman had stopped by when she'd gotten word that today was the 'big day'. She couldn't contain a grin at John's arguments— he was almost like a little kid, trying to convince a parent to let them do something they shouldn't.

John missed the expression; "And I'm not exactly going to get stronger by staying in bed all day and getting fed through…" He gestured helplessly towards the IV line on his neck.

Elizabeth tilted her head forward, still smiling but entreating John to be serious for a moment. "They just don't want you to push yourself too hard. We all know you want to get out of here and get back on your feet," she added, sympathetically— funny, despite that, this wasn't exactly turning out how John had hoped— "And I know its hard, but you need to be patient."

"I _am_ getting better," John muttered, checking the urge to cross his arms in front of him. God, he was _sulking_. Even realizing that, it didn't change his attitude. He had to pretend he wasn't panting though, and again stole some of the effectiveness from his display.

Instead of getting annoyed with his sullenness, though, Elizabeth placed one understanding hand on his arm. "I know," she said quietly. "We'd just like you to _keep_ getting better."

John nodded along, even though it was reluctantly. Then, as a thought occurred to him, he seemed to brighten a bit. "Hey, they took me off the uh…" He paused to cough a couple of times, waving off Elizabeth's concern. "Ah, the uh, hemodialysis, yesterday."

"Yes, I heard," the woman assured him, smiling widely once more, concealing that twinge of worry.

"Now if I could just get them to get rid of this thing," he added, fiddling with the total-parenteral-nutrition line— the little tube going into his jugular vein.

She swatted at his arm; "Quit playing with it," she warned.

John looked hurt; "Come on, Elizabeth. I mean, it's not just uncomfortable," he complained, "it's creeping me out. And, I mean, now that I'm off the respirator, it's not like I can't just _eat_." What he didn't add was that the staff had informed him his digestive system had pretty much shut down while he was in his little medical coma. Considering his small intestine had been punctured by a bullet, Wright had informed him, he was in no hurry to taking him off the intravenous line.

Elizabeth got daily medical reports, though, so she wasn't _exactly_ buying it.

Letting out a frustrated sigh— which of course prompted another round of coughing and wheezing— John leaned back against his bed, the back of which had been angled upwards so he could sit up without too much trouble. "See, this is why Carson won't treat me," he muttered. "'Cause he doesn't want to feel guilty for putting me through all this."

A half-suppressed laugh made John pretend to glare at her. "Somehow, I think there's more to it than that," she added, with one arched eyebrow.

"Yeah," John shot back. "He knows that when I turn on the puppy-dog eyes, I can talk him out of anything."

Elizabeth winced at his choice of words; "I don't think Carson needs a reminder of that," she pointed out.

John paused for a second, mouth hanging open, to rethink what he had just said. When it registered, he closed his eyes, wincing as well. "Right… Don't use that argument to try and get out of the infirmary," he noted, a little sheepish.

The diplomat shook her head, a wry grin adorning her face. Then her expression softened as she thought it over a moment. "You know, Dr. Heightmeyer wants to speak with you within the next few days." John couldn't help but grimace, but quickly tried to cover it up— he had suspected something like this would be coming, now that he was capable of staying awake for a couple hours at a time. Pretending she hadn't noticed, Elizabeth went on; "I'll talk to Carson… if he thinks you're capable, I'll see about having you go down to her office for it instead of her coming here."

For a moment, John couldn't reply— he was trying to make sense of what Elizabeth had just offered him. For one, he noticed, she had said _Carson_, not Dr. Wright, who she had to have known would flat out refuse. That alone buoyed his hopes.

However, the whole thing came with a quid pro quo— the only way he was getting out of here, even for just a while, was to go talk to the psychologist. And the trip to Heightmeyer's office wasn't exactly the excursion he had had in mind… _still_. John nodded, a bit numbly, before grinning. "That… would be awesome."

Elizabeth tried not to roll her eyes at his choice of descriptor; "You're welcome," she replied, tone heavy with irony. John just beamed back at her in that charming, annoying way.

She finally gave in and let out a laugh. "You're full of it," she remarked, prompting a rather hurt look from John. It didn't matter though… for the first time in a while, Elizabeth wasn't doubting that Colonel Sheppard was going to recover… if only through sheer stubbornness.

* * *

John sat impatiently on his bed; this time, to his immense relief, it was Carson Beckett and a nurse seeing to him, instead of Dr. Wright. Not that the guy wasn't a competent doctor… he was just boring. And, John added silently, impossible to cajole.

For the moment, though, his curiosity won out over cajolement, as he watched the nurse remove the nutrition bag.

Glancing over at Carson on his other side, he joked, "What, gonna let me try and eat later, too?"

In truth, it was probably just so he wouldn't have to bring three dozen IV stands with him to his interview with Kate Heightmeyer, but hey, a guy could hope—

"Possibly," Beckett remarked, flatly and without weight.

"…Wait. _Seriously?_"

Sheppard saw the nurse smile at his incredulity; honestly, he didn't _care_. The possibility that he might get to regain yet another bit of normalcy in his life was enough to drown out any indignation he might have felt

"Possibly!" Beckett repeated, though he looked amused as well. "It depends on how well you're doing after your session with Dr. Heightmeyer. All right dear," he said, turning to the nurse and handing her the length of tubing that had connected the bag to Sheppard; "That should be it." She departed.

John, on the other hand, was starting to frown. _That's it? What about…_ "Hey, if I get to try and eat, don't I get _this_ taken out?" John looked quite indignant now, and Carson could guess well enough what _this_ was supposed to mean. While the tubing and bag were being disconnected, the port was staying in.

"Just because you're capable of eating doesn't mean your system is going to be able to handle everything; you may not even be capable of keeping anything down," Carson warned, and John made a face at the image he got from that. "Besides, that will be later. For now," he continued, "we're just detaching part of the line so you can leave the infirmary." A moment later he had done so, and Sheppard twisted his neck experimentally. Still uncomfortable, but not unworkable.

"Great!" John started to swing his feet over the side of the bed, only to be stopped again.

"_Ah!_ Not like that, you're not."

Sheppard's forehead crinkled with his confusion. He glanced down. "What, how I'm dressed?"

Making a loud noise of frustration, Carson rolled his eyes. "No, _not_ how you're dressed, I don't give a _damn_ how you're dressed. I meant _walking_."

The change in John's expression was instantaneous. "Aw, come _on—_"

"_No_ arguing." Beckett was holding up a single warning finger. It was clear, there was _no_ room for fighting this one. "It's in a wheelchair or not at all. We're not going to have you killing yourself by running all across the City."

"I am _not_ going to kill myself."

"I know. Because you'll be in a wheelchair." He made another warning sound. "You still want to try eating later?"

Sheppard gave him an incredulous look, but no argument; he was too busy gaping in shock. Satisfied, Carson turned to make some notes on John's file on the desk nearby. "_That_ is blackmail," the man said at last, voice heavy with accusation.

"I know," Carson replied cheerfully.

He didn't quite expect John's angry response. "Why won't anyone let me even _try_ to push myself, just a _little_ harder?" Beckett spun, but not fast enough to cut off Sheppard's next words. "I'm going _no where!_"

"Are you so determined to get better that you're going to push yourself to your breaking point like an _idiot?_" Carson demanded.

"Why does everyone think I'm going to break??" John demanded right back.

"Because you _will!_"

Both men's attention was suddenly caught by movement at the doorway— the nurse had returned, and just as quickly, halted when she caught their argument. Before either could say anything, she had backpedaled out the door. Carson watched her go, before turning back to Sheppard, who looked away, slouching where he sat. Feeling a twinge of frustration, Carson strode over to the door and waved his hand across the panel next to it, waiting for it to close before he tried to reach the colonel again.

"You _know_ you will," he clarified. "Is that what this is all about?" Beckett asked all of a sudden. "You're worried you're not going to make it, and you're desperate to fight this?" Sheppard didn't turn to face him, but he saw his expression tighten. When he got no reply, Carson went on to ask, almost disparagingly, "Or are you actually _trying_ to get yourself killed?"

"No!" John replied hotly, finally looking at Beckett and now sounding offended. "That's not…" He seemed to struggle with the answer, and gave up, sighing loudly. Carson waited a beat before he tried to respond.

"John. You've made progress. But you're not out of the woods yet." The other man's eyes slid shut, and he slumped even further over. Carson crossed back to him and put one arm across his shoulder— "I know you don't want to think about it. It's hard to deal with. Trust me," he added, with earnestness. "I know."

John just shook his head. "It's like no matter how hard I try, I'm accomplishing nothing."

"If you try too hard," Beckett broke in, "you'll be working against yourself."

"I know," Sheppard said in a soft voice. "But if I don't, then nothing happens either. Like… I dunno. I'm running up a slippery slope. I can try to go half way or all the way, I just end up right back at the bottom." He let out an exasperated sigh. "Hell, I feel even weaker now than I did a week ago."

Carson reminded him, "That's to be expected, Colonel; you've been taken off of practically all life support—"

"Yeah well the machines were doing a better job of it than I am."

"…Well, yes," Carson admitted, with a hint of a smile. "They _were_ machines. But you _will_ get better."

The other man was unconvinced. "Hardly seems worth it—"

"_Don't_ you dare." Startled, John glanced up at Beckett, who now looked almost angry at what was implicit in those four words.

"…All… all right." He nodded, looking truly sheepish. "Fair enough." Carson seemed to relax; John hadn't really meant it. The man in question tried to force a smile to assure him of this. Then, his expression shifted, as he thought of something new. "Y'know, _speaking_ of how I'm dressed…"

The other man's eyebrows came together in confusion, before he realized what John was getting on about. "Oh for heaven's sake, didn't I just tell you I don't give a damn how you're dressed?"

"Exactly!" John leaned forward, entreatingly. "So why should it matter if I'm wearing different clothes?" He was desperate to get out of these stupid hospital scrubs. When Carson seemed to balk, he adjusted his request; "Just a pair of sweat pants and some sneakers, then. _Please?_"

After a few moments, Carson rolled his eyes. "_Fine_. I'll send someone to pick them up from your quarters. And _then_ one of the nurses will help you dress."

Sheppard pretended to perk up with interest. "_Really._ Which one?"

"One of the _male_ nurses," Carson corrected, dryly, and John seemed to deflate.

"_Doc_. I know we're checking for signs of personality change here," he said as the Scot started to depart the room. He called after, "But I don't think I'm _that_ far gone!"

* * *

It was maybe thirty minutes later, and John was drumming his fingers on his thighs impatiently.

"Quit that, you're ruining the reading," the nurse admonished him. "We're going to have to wait for it to correct itself," she added, and John shifted uncomfortably.

He should have known this was all too easy. He was disconnected and doped up and even changed into some of his own clothes— admittedly, sweats, running shoes, and a white scrubs top was not his preferred choice of apparel, but it was better than the all white, mental-facility-outpatient look— now all he needed to do was get in the damned wheelchair and get pushed to Heightmeyer's office.

But no. It couldn't be that simple. Carson was running one more barrage of tests on him. Currently, he had a blood pressure cuff around one arm, and a thermometer under his tongue, which he was sure had already gotten a reading, and the nurse was just leaving there so he couldn't talk.

_Finally_, it seemed, they had gotten all the readings they could possibly _get_— "Got enough to make another me?" he quipped as Carson came back into the room.

"Hardly. Now, we're just going to bring the wheelchair in, and—"

"Carson, I can walk out into the infirmary," John replied, sounding a little disgusted with the level of _mothering_ he was getting from the man.

And, true to form, Carson asked, "Now what did we just talk about?" John was waiting for him to add, _young man_, but luckily it never came so he could avoid _retching_.

Instead, he said, a bit waspish though it was, "I am perfectly capable of _standing__up_." And just to give Beckett a heart attack, he scooted off the edge of the infirmary bed and did just that; true, he was unsteady for a moment, but he only needed to catch himself on the infirmary bed once before he was able to stand without it. Grinning in triumph, the colonel gave a cocky smile.

"What do you think you're doing? _Standing_ is one thing," he said, cutting off John's reply, "_Walking_ is another."

"It's _twenty feet_," Sheppard said, gesturing helplessly towards the door.

"Fine!" Carson threw his hands up in the air, and John grinned like the Cheshire Cat, knowing he'd won. "And forgive me when I laugh as you fall flat on your face in the process!"

"Will do," John assured him in his patently annoying-yet-cheerful way.

He made it from the bed to the door easily enough— _Crap, didn't realize this was going to pull at the stitches so badly,_ he thought to himself, fighting to conceal the expression of pain on his face. Carson moved to try and help him when he leaned against the wall momentarily, but then Sheppard pushed off from it, determined to do at least this much on his own.

He walked a bit faster than maybe he should have out into the main infirmary, where he saw Teyla and Ronon standing with the nurse, who had the wheelchair. By the time he reached them, his heart was pounding in his chest, but he wore a grin anyways, pathetically proud of what he'd just accomplished. "Hey guys," he said, casually, sounding only a little out of breath.

"John, this is… incredible!" Teyla sounded delighted, which made the colonel's grin spread even wider.

Ronon's only comment was, "Nice," but it was more than enough for Sheppard.

"Oh, I try," he said in an offhand manner.

"All right," Carson cut in, "enough of that. Let's get that chair set up," he instructed the nurse, who nodded and unfolded the thing.

"You know, Beckett even promised to let me try eating later," John continued, ignoring the fact that the doctor was now trying to get him into the wheelchair, _and_ that he was perceptibly swaying where he stood.

His friends' happiness was clouded by worry now, and John felt a surge of disappointment that they weren't as excited over the news as he'd hoped they'd be; Beckett came up beside him and placed one hand on his shoulder. "_Maybe_. Now sit," he ordered. "I'm still not sure you're up to _this_, so let's not get ahead of ourselves."

John frowned, looking almost betrayed. _The hell?_ "Oh come on, you already agreed to let me out of the infirmary." No, forget betrayed; _angry_. They had already been over this! Hadn't he just proved that he wasn't as fragile as they all thought he was?

"For the _afternoon_. You have to take this in baby steps, colonel, and frankly, I don't like how hard you're pushing yourself!" Carson shot right back.

Whatever John was about to say was cut off as he suddenly winced in pain. Then, he was doubled over, breathing heavy, one hand at his chest. Immediately, there were hands on each of his arms; Sheppard tried to push them back. He just needed to catch his breath. Just needed—

_Shit!_ Sheppard lit out a hiss as another stab of pain went through his torso, but that too was interrupted, this time by a cough, which made the pain practically roll across his chest in waves. God, he could barely _breathe_ now.

His eyes were starting to roll back in his head when his knees gave out— someone caught him before he hit the floor and people started yelling, but John was too busy fighting off unconsciousness to hear what they were saying. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to make his body respond to what he wanted it to do.

_Damn it!_ It felt like someone was sitting on his chest. He tried to thrash away, and felt himself fall a short distance— must have pulled away from whoever had him, but they caught him again— but that pressure didn't ease up. John opened his eyes again, and all he really saw were patches of black and spots of color. He thought he could feel someone's hand on his chest, and tried to push it away, but his hands wouldn't move how he wanted them to.

"_He's going into tachycardia!_"

Everything felt wrong— vertigo, John knew, being a pilot, they put you through all sorts of shit and he _hated_ getting vertigo. Part of him wanted to just close his eyes and fall back into unconsciousness, which would have been eminently easier and less painful, he was sure. Then, like someone had flipped a switch, the pressure began to ease— though _something_ in his left arm hurt like a _bitch_, and he tried to pull away from that. The muffled sounds around him began to clear.

"_Damn_ it!" Beckett was saying, and John just knew he was blaming himself. "_This_ is why you can't push yourself, John! Come on, help me get him back in his room, I'm going to call Heightmeyer and—"

"_No,_" John managed to get out, trying his hardest to push whoever was 'helping' him away. "No, don't. I'm okay."

Blinking repeatedly, his vision swam to the point of being nauseating, before seeming to resolve itself into Ronon and an orderly, supporting him on either side, and then Teyla and Beckett and that pretty nurse _whats-her-name_ out in front, watching him with great levels of worry on their faces.

"No you're not," Carson said in a high voice, sounding as though John had just tried to leap off a bridge instead of— what was it he had said? Falling on his face. "You're going to go rest— I knew this was a bad idea," he muttered to himself.

John looked back and forth between his friends, wondering why they weren't backing him up on this. "I look worse than I am," he assured the lot of them.

Teyla was shaking her head. "John, you do not realize—"

Growing irritated, he cut her off. "Look, I almost passed out, but I _didn't_—"

"_Pass out?_" Carson's vehemence and incredulity surprised John a little. "You didn't just 'almost' pass out, your _heart_ almost stopped!"

That was news to Sheppard, who could do nothing more than blink for a few seconds in shock. Then all he could think of to say, was, "What?"

Carson let out a quick breath, not quite keeping the tremor from it, and Sheppard felt a pang of guilt. This was all because he had insisted on walking to the stupid chair, when they could have just brought it to him— "All right," the doctor was saying, "help him up," and he felt himself being lifted from either side.

"Wait! Wait, no!" The tech didn't look like he was going to comply, but Ronon stopped to listen, and John made sure most of his weight was leaned towards that side. "Look… I'm sorry," he said first, knowing that might make all the difference. And he _was_— "I just let myself get excited… I can still do this," he said, trying make Carson see. And he _really was_ sorry… The silence seemed to stretch on and on, until Sheppard was sure he was going to collapse again, and prayed Carson would at least answer before then, or else he'd have _no_ chance of getting out of here for another week. He needed to show Beckett that he could deal with this… He'd made a mistake, but it wasn't going to beat him.

"…All right," Carson said at last, giving in. "Get him in the chair," he added for Ronon and the orderly, shaking his head and wondering what the hell he was doing.

Sheppard allowed himself to be settled in the thing without even fussing, eminently relieved to be sitting before he fell on his ass. "Carson… thanks," he said, and the doctor just exhaled loudly, turning away to be alone with his thoughts. "You know, now that I think of it," John commented easily, "the wheelchair might just be a good idea."

He kept his smile even when Beckett turned and glared at him. Even when Beckett walked over, clearly unamused. _Then_ Beckett smacked him upside the head—

"Ow! What was that for??"

Ignoring the other man's complaints; "An orderly and nurse are going to accompany you down there… and Teyla and Ronon as well, I assume," he added, seeing the latter straighten up when it was presumed they would be leaving their friend behind.

"The session's supposed to be private," Sheppard was quick to remind him.

Carson raised one eyebrow. "Then someone will wait for you outside her office."

Predictably, the colonel began to balk. "Look, it's probably going to be a while— too long to ask someone to wait. I'll radio for one of you when I'm done," John assured him.

And… Carson wasn't buying it. "I'll have _Kate_ radio me when you're done," he corrected.

To Beckett's dismay and Sheppard's delight, Ronon bent down and said, "Radio one of _us_," he said, gesturing to himself and Teyla.

"You're not helping," Carson muttered.

Ronon grinned and Teyla smiled, stepping towards John. Then, quietly, she asked, "You are sure you do not want us to wait for you there?"

_God, this is going to be hard enough without thinking you're right outside the door._ Instead, he said, "This is probably going to take forever. Go get some lunch or something…"

The look Teyla gave him told him she was suspicious, but luckily, John was saved by Ronon, who said, "We thought we'd wait and have lunch _with_ you. You did say you were going to let him try eating;" he turned to the doctor— "didn't you?"

When the Scot didn't answer, Sheppard did. "Yes, well;" John glanced over at Beckett, who was regarding the three of them with a sidelong glance; he was pretty sure the man cursing him for telling Teyla and Ronon; if he hadn't, there would have been no witnesses, and he could have pretended he never agreed to it. "Leaving the infirmary _and_ eating in the mess hall? Not sure Napoleon would let me."

"Keep that up," Carson warned, "and I can tell you exactly what the answer's going to be!"

John held up his hands in surrender. "I'm behaving!" Then Ronon was behind the wheelchair, and they were headed for Heightmeyer's office. Even with the hassles he was putting up with, and considering where he was _going_, Sheppard's face was lit with a grin. He tilted his head all the way back, glancing up at the large man above him. "Y'know, I didn't know you did a chauffeur service."

Ronon snorted at him. "Don't get used to it."

* * *

Surprisingly, it didn't take quite as long as John had guessed. I didn't take long for him to realize this wasn't going to work. At all.

And where was that enthusiasm now?

Question after question, she pressed in and drug up things Sheppard had battened down. At one point, he was oddly reminded of the Goa'uld, and felt suddenly sick.

"Going back to the cell— what were you thinking, particularly about your teammates and colleagues?"

"I… I wished they would bring me a cot or something," he offered, but Heightmeyer didn't seem quite that amused. "I don't know, I wasn't focused on them so much as the parasite."

"Even though the parasite wasn't in you?" One eyebrow was arched.

John fumbled over his answer. "I… guess. I mean, I didn't know it wasn't…" What had seemed so plausible before now sounded just stupid. "Everyone thought it was in me— okay, I guess I was angry about that." _Duh, idiot_, he told himself and winced. "Frustrated that everyone was treating me like the enemy." Heightmeyer nodded along, jotting down notes. John hesitated for a moment, before he piped up. "Dr. Heightmeyer—"

"_Kate_," she insisted. "What is it?" the psychologist asked gently after.

His face resolved itself into an uneasy smile. "Never mind… I forget."

She watched him carefully for a few long moments, but he wasn't forthcoming; Kate was left with little to do but pick up where she left off. "Do you think that experience caused you to change your feelings about any one person or thing in particular? Even if only temporarily," she added.

"I…" Damn it, now his _voice_ was shaking? "I hated the Goa'uld… what I— it had done to me," he quickly corrected.

And Heightmeyer didn't miss a beat. Flipping back several pages; "You said before, you blamed yourself 'for letting it in'," she read. "You hated what happened, and yet, you think it happened because of you?"

Unable to hide his disturbance now, but still feebly trying, John muttered, "I never said that…"

"All right… What do you feel about it?" she asked then, poising her pen over her paper. "Now, for instance, looking back… would you have done anything differently?"

John hesitated… and suddenly found he couldn't answer. Couldn't, didn't want to— he just wanted to get out of there. And the whole thing went downhill from there.

With answers ranging from monosyllables to 'I don't know', the session started to wrap up quickly— despite all her efforts and frustration, Kate just couldn't coax any more out of him. John felt bad, but he couldn't help but feel there was nothing _he_ could do either.

It seemed they had at last reached the end— both of the interview, and their respective wits.

Heightmeyer flipped through several pages, chin resting tiredly on one hand. Then she let the book rest and looked up at him. "And that's it?"

"Look, Doc— _Kate_," he amended with an bit of exasperation before she could correct him. "That's all… I swear," he added, for all the good it did. John was lying and they both knew it, but Kate felt as if it really was all he was capable of sharing… it wasn't pride or shame. He had just locked up. It was the exact same problem she had encountered with the other heads of staff, only now in full force— and after everything the colonel had been through, the psychologist could understand his open aversion to her attempts to delve into his mind.

"…All right then."

For his part, John was surprised, then suspicious, when Dr. Heightmeyer gave in that easily. But then… She _was_ a psychologist… maybe _she_ understood this more than even he did. God, John could only hope she did. He tried to relax his body, sink further into the chair, but his chest ached and the bandages pulled painfully.

Heightmeyer was filling out a piece of paper work, then typing something into her computer. John tried to wait patiently; he even tried to politely hold back the cough that his lungs were trying to force out. Tried, at any rate.

Finally, she pulled out a small pad of medical slips, and scribbled something down. _Is it over yet?_ he wondered. Damn it, _should_ have asked Rodney what to expect— well, except, that would require, y'know… getting to talk to McKay.

And apparently, something was very wrong between the two of them. Either that, or McKay had disappeared off the face of the planet.

Kate handed him the slip of paper. It took a moment for John to realize it, and he hastily reached forward, hating how his hand shook as he tried to take the stupid thing. He finally managed to snatch it, and pulled it back to give it the once over.

His eyes went wide for a moment, before they narrowed in accusation; glaring up at Kate, he demanded, "You _can't_ be serious?"

"Colonel," she started.

"No," he snapped. "This is _bullshit_." He pushed himself up out of his chair, swaying for one uncertain moment before he was able to catch his balance.

"Sit back down," Heightmeyer ordered in a voice that might have cowed someone else; if John hadn't been so damned pissed, he might have listened anyways.

But as it was, he was practically fuming. "_No_," he repeated, a sarcastic and unamused smile on his face that faded as he went on. "I am _not_ going to accept this." And with that he turned on a heel, and stormed out of her office.

He could hear Kate yell from behind him, following him out into the corridor, "Colonel Sheppard! _John!_" but ignored her, as well as his own heavy breathing. He could hear the psychologist break into a run, coming after him, but didn't stop.

And she _might_ just have caught up with him, if her office wasn't so close to a transporter. John slumped against the back panel as the door slid shut, unable to feel satisfaction from ditching the psychologist like he did. The transporter did its thing, and the door opened onto a new hallway, but he didn't move to leave just yet. Glancing down, Sheppard saw the slip of paper from just a minute ago, now half-wadded up like a piece of garbage in his hand. God, he _wanted_ to throw it away— wanted to _burn_ it, more like. Instead, he just sighed, resting his head against the wall.

She could _not_ be serious.

* * *

"So no more inclement weather in the 'Gate Room." The old sarcasm was back, and the expedition leader had to force herself not to smile— what Rodney said wasn't _that_ funny, and he'd guess easily enough that she was more amused by his antics than his words.

So all she said was, "Pity. I was hoping to see a rainbow one of these mornings."

Rodney snorted, rolling his eyes, and Elizabeth indulged in a grin. "Yes well, I'm afraid you'll have to do without."

"That's quite a sacrifice you're asking me to make."

"You know, I never pegged you as the 'unicorns and rainbows' type."

"I'm not," Elizabeth replied, a bit of a sly grin on her face. "Nor am I the 'indoor waterfall' type."

It had taken a while to find a way to cover the Jumper Bay's upper doors while the replacements were under construction— it wasn't so much that it rained down into the Control Room. Rather, it rained into the Jumper Bay, which then poured down all the collected water at once whenever a Jumper needed to be used. They had tried to refrain from using the ships; however, Elizabeth had finally put her foot down and put Rodney on the problem, much to his consternation. This was a problem for Zelenka, or one of the engineers… when that hadn't worked, he had reasoned, why not just leave it as a water feature?

Rodney's expression tightened a little at her unspoken jab, and Elizabeth came right out and laughed. "Good work, Rodney," she said at last, to hopefully placate the incensed scientist. "I appreciate it."

As usual, the ego stroking served to mollify some of his irritation, though to Elizabeth's dismay, he wasn't quite going to let her off that easy. Tilting his head and holding a finger to his ear, he asked, "Excuse me, what? What was that? I don't think I _quite_ caught that last bit."

Her expression now looking more than a little admonishing as he started fishing for compliments; "Rodney" Then suddenly, her eyes were wide and her face was blank, and the woman was staring at something over Rodney's shoulder. He started to spin to look, but hadn't turned all the way around when Elizabeth exclaimed, "_John!_"

Colonel Sheppard was storming across the control area, at least as well as he could. He was angry, that much they could see, and clearly headed for Elizabeth's office— all of a sudden, when he got fairly close, he ground to a halt, the same shocked expression on his face as on theirs. The only difference, Rodney noticed, was that John was staring at _him_.

The man was starting to backpedal, but before he could wheel around, Elizabeth was up and at the door, and she had the advantage of being at full health. "John! No, come in," she insisted, even as he tried to run off. "You're not in the infirmary!"

"Yeah, I was doing so well…" The colonel hesitated. "I, uh… really, it's not important," he said, almost sheepishly. "Seriously, it was… it was nothing."

"All the same," Elizabeth said, now firmly, taking the few steps towards him and gently taking hold of his arm— it wasn't like John could even pull away, either, to his disgust. "We haven't had the chance to really talk to you for so long."

It was obvious she wasn't going to let him take off, now that she'd caught him out of the infirmary without an excuse. It wasn't that he minded that, so much, as… He really didn't know how he was going to deal with _Rodney_, as the man had seemingly been avoiding him like the plague. And he _really_ didn't want to talk about what he had come here for with the man there. So, it was reluctantly that John let himself be led into the small office.

"Rodney," he greeted, awkwardly. "Look, you guys were talking about something important, I don't want to interrupt—"

The scientist was already up out of his seat, even as Elizabeth took hers. "It wasn't and you're not," he said, brusquely. "Sit."

Trying to sound defiant, John replied, "I'm fine standing." He ended up sounding like he was whining.

Making a sound of disparagement; "_Please_. You're about to fall over, now sit before you collapse and we have to call Carson and his flying monkeys." John stubbornly refused to listen, though he did give in enough to put one hand on the back of the chair and lean on it. Rodney caught himself giving the colonel a glare, and quickly changed it into rolling his eyes.

Elizabeth had been watching this exchange carefully, and she wore a measured look of disapproval when John declined to sit, but… _Short of physically forcing him into the chair, there's not a lot we can do._ From the looks of things, though, that wouldn't have been too hard. In fact, he was breathing pretty heavily…

"So, what was it you needed to see me about?" she asked, trying to keep her voice amiable.

"Nothing," John said, innocently, though his free hand tightened, and Elizabeth only then noticed that there was something— a piece of paper, it seemed— clutched there, now getting well and truly crumpled. Weir was ready to call him on it, when she noticed that his whole body seemed to be trembling.

"John? Are you all right?" she asked, rising half way back out of her chair.

The soldier was about ready to reply with another 'I'm fine,' when he suddenly realized he _wasn't_. Breathing was suddenly getting a lot harder. His hands starting to clench, as he tried to steady himself, only— they wouldn't. He didn't even have the strength for that.

Breaths now coming as _panting_, John heard Elizabeth and Rodney calling his name, and his vision started to darken.

_No, no, not again, come on…_ He was trying to focus, to pull himself together and force his overtaxed body to relax. After a while, it seemed to work. John opened his eyes— opened? He hadn't even realized he had closed them.

And now he was… staring at the ceiling? Elizabeth and Rodney were leaning over him.

"Wha…?" John's eyebrows drew together, not understanding.

"Are you all right?" Elizabeth's face was full of worry; John was just trying to figure out what had happened.

"Yeah I… think so. Did I fall or something?"

She just smiled pityingly at his confusion. "You had a moment there." Elizabeth had taken his hand, trying to help him sit up— to the colonel's vast embarrassment, he couldn't muster the strength to do so, and struggled for a moment. Then she and Rodney had each taken an arm and pulled him into a sitting position. "You had us worried," she added, giving the colonel a stab of guilt.

He rubbed one hand self-consciously across the back of his head, before he jerked his hand away a few inches, like he had touched a live wire. Trying to act natural, John closed his hand into a fist and brought it down to his lap, smiling sheepishly; Rodney and Elizabeth knew full well what he had touched that provoked the reaction, and said nothing.

Trying to steer the conversation away from this new source of awkwardness, he said, "Well, sorry. Guess I overdid it a little."

Quirking one eyebrow upwards, Elizabeth asked, "You think?"

"Hm, yes, just a little, though it was very subtle, barely noticeable," Rodney said dryly, rummaging around for something. John took the opportunity to shoot a helpless glance at Elizabeth while Rodney was distracted. She grinned back, but was saved from having to reply as the scientist looked back up at them, producing a piece of paper and holding it out for John. "Oh, by the way, you dropped this."

Sheppard's eyes widened in alarm, before he snatched it from Rodney's hand as best he could, glaring at the scientist, who went from looking worried to offended.

"Wha— It's not like I _read_ it! _God_, you can be such a little kid sometimes," he added in a mutter as he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

Elizabeth cleared her throat, before the two of them could get into a bickering match. "John," she started, before pointing at the slip he was clutching so possessively. "Can I assume that's what this was all about?" The question was rather pointed.

And again, he wouldn't admit anything, shifting to try and stuff the little paper in his pocket, acting nonchalant. "It's not important."

Rodney was blatantly unconvinced. "It was obviously important enough that you had to run down here then get yourself so worked up you fainted—"

"I did not _faint!_" John protested.

"It's the proper medical terminology," Rodney reminded him smugly.

"_Boys_." Elizabeth was not amused; the two of them looked chagrined enough that she let it go one more time, but her patience was steadily wearing thin. Sighing, she turned to John. For a moment, she held his gaze— silently, he pleaded with her.

She held out her hand.

Despairing, John continued to watch her for a moment longer, before he finally gave in. Digging back into his pocket, he pulled out the abused little slip of paper, handing it to Elizabeth without looking at her.

Her reaction was almost the same as his when she read it— "She put you—"

"_Elizabeth!_" John wanted to kick himself for sounding that petulant, but he really didn't want everyone to know. He _desperately_ didn't want anyone else to know.

Rodney, meanwhile, was looking quite offended and a little hurt. "Oh, yeah, _thanks_. Sitting right here, you know?" he added, waving his hand a little.

Elizabeth shot him an apologetic look, but she wouldn't say whatever it was that Sheppard was obviously keeping from him. Returning her gaze to John, she said, "There's nothing I can do about this."

Apparently, _this_ was something really awful, as John just about exploded. "Come _on!_"

His incredulous outburst did nothing to sway Elizabeth, who had taken that, 'It's _my_ decision and it's _final_' look, and this time, even as he protested, John knew that he wasn't going to win this one. "If that is Dr. Heightmeyer's professional opinion—"

"This is _completely _unnecessary—"

"Then _that's_ what we're going to do," Elizabeth continued, raising her voice above the colonel's and giving him the cold stare that told him, he'd better back off, and _now_. "And you're _not_ going to keep fighting this."

Appearing somewhat wounded, John gave it one last try. "Elizabeth," he pleaded, but it wasn't going to work this time.

"Drop it, John," she said, and that was that. "Personally," she added after a long silence, and just a hint softer; "I think Kate's right."

Rodney watched as John's expression changed into something aghast, and had to wonder just what Heightmeyer had written about him. Geez, it couldn't have been _that_ bad, could it? He'd had his fair share of poor psych reports, and hell, he'd just gotten over them. Feeling completely out of the loop, he coughed once, awkwardly. The scientist had to repress a sarcastic remark when both Elizabeth and John started, as though they had forgotten he was there.

Trying not to get annoyed, he acted as if it hadn't happened, blithely changing the subject back to John's condition. "Maybe we should be calling Carson? Before Captain Unconscious here gets himself excited again."

Composing herself, Elizabeth nodded, while John shot Rodney a dirty glare. "I did _not faint._" Appealing to the diplomat again, he gave her one of _those_ looks. "Come on, cut me _some_ slack here, would you?"

"You passed out in the middle of my office," she reminded him.

"Fainted."

"_Rodney_."

"I _collapsed_. I wasn't even _unconscious_," he added, with more than just a little resentment.

Rodney gave a skeptical laugh that earned him another glare from John, and a disapproving look from Elizabeth. "Oh yes you were. And you can staunchly refuse all you like on the off chance that it will make it _true_, but I somehow doubt that's going to happen."

"I _wasn't_," John repeated, even as he started to think that maybe he had in fact lost consciousness, even if he hadn't realized it at first. Then, aware that he was beginning to sound like a two-year old again, what with the 'Did not!' 'Did too!' back and forth, John tried to explain the whole thing away. "Look, I was just… I don't have a lot in me right now," he admitted, and that was the truth. It just wasn't why he fainted— _damn it_, collapsed! "There's nothing Carson can do except shove food down my throat and tell me to relax, and I can do that well enough myself," he said, a bit more vehemently than he intended.

Elizabeth was eyeing him suspiciously, and Rodney with outright disbelief. John was suddenly aware that he wasn't making a very convincing argument, seated on the floor of Elizabeth's office, shaking enough that the techs out in the command area could probably see it, but he wasn't going to give up, not on this one. He had suffered enough indignity in the past five minutes, he figured— it was about time for his karma to give him a break.

"So, wait," Rodney said all of a sudden. "You say Carson _released_ you from the infirmary?"

John could feel the scientist's eyes on his shoulder, and he glanced down, remembering the TNP port, which was showing half way past the edge of the scrubs shirt. _Damn it_. "Ah… I didn't _say_ that," John replied, innocently, casually pulling at the collar of the shirt. "I _said_… I was doing so well, and he agreed to let me have the afternoon. So long as I take it easy," he added, prompting a sound of amusement from Rodney. Ignoring him; "I even get to try eating, did you hear?" He threw that last bit in to hopefully lend a bit more credulity to his story.

Eventually, Elizabeth leaned back a little— still looking a little mistrustful of John's intentions and that perfectly innocent expression on his face— and said, "All right. I won't call Carson. _If,_" she stipulated, "you agree to eat something, and then go lay down."

"_Yes,_" John agreed in a heartbeat, flooded by a wave of relief. "Absolutely." He tried to push himself up— _that_ was a bust; thankfully, Rodney helped pull him up without saying anything— John was sure he was just waiting until Elizabeth was out of earshot, but still— he stood for a moment, making sure he was steady, before he started for the door.

To his surprise, Rodney was already there, and gestured for him to hurry. When John just gave him a puzzled look, he gave an exasperated and over-dramatic sigh. "Hurry up, would you?"

True to nature; "What?"

"Oh yeah, right," Rodney shot back; "Like I'm gonna let you run off on your own— probably would have skived out of it anyhow."

John snapped his head around to look at Elizabeth, who instead of rescuing him, seemed amused. She merely waved her fingers at him as Rodney began to drag him out of the office.

Talk about unfair— John hadn't even _thought_ about skipping eating! For once, he had fully intended to follow orders, and this was what he got for it? "Gimme a _break_," he muttered under his breath.

Apparently, it wasn't quiet enough. "Quit whining," Rodney shot back over his shoulder as he pulled the poor man past the command consoles and into the hallway beyond.

"You know, I'm perfectly capable of finding the mess hall on my own, Rodney," he replied, in that 'Okay, this is cute, but it's getting old, _fast_,' tone of voice.

"Of course you are." The man let out a snort. "But we can't exactly have you passing out in the middle of the City; Carson's already going to have our necks if he finds out we didn't call him the first time," he remarked, a bit ruefully.

John eyed Rodney, trying to take the measure of his response… Was he mocking him? No, he decided at length… Rodney was actually being… conversational.

And that was more strange than Rodney biting his head off.

McKay was still uneasy with him… he could hear it in his voice, could feel it— quite literally— in the way Rodney was gripping his arm. Oh yes, he could feel it all the way down to his blood starved fingers. But mostly in the way Rodney kept holding back, catching himself, only letting himself get upset when John was ignoring his own well being.

"All right," he said at last. "I'll quit whining… if you quit acting like I'm gonna break."

Rodney stopped, before he released John's arm suddenly, as if he had forgotten he was still holding it. While the soldier massaged his elbow, Rodney smiled, ruefully, pointing one finger at John. "Right." When he looked away, John glanced heavenward— now he wanted to kick himself. He wasn't trying to make McKay feel _guilty_, damn it!

Trying to take a new approach, he said, "Hey, McKay—"

"_Ah!_" The physicist held up one finger to the side, still not facing John and apparently not ready to talk.

"_Rodney_. Take it easy, would ya'?" he asked, his voice lightening up.

"…What?" Rodney spun to face the colonel, looking completely baffled. "Take it _easy?_"

John looked confused himself— this wasn't a difficult concept, so what was wrong? "…Ye-eah."

"After everything that's—" he caught himself, clenching his eyes and teeth before he started up again. "Look, I have to live with what I did, and, right now, that's kind of hard to do and pretend that everything's fine between us and—"

"_Rodney!_" The scientist was shocked out of his rant enough for John to get a word in edgewise. "Everything _is_ fine between us. I don't blame you— for _anything_. You want me to forgive you? There's nothing to forgive!" he insisted with a smile. "Now lighten up, would ya'?"

He started down the hallway on his own, leaving Rodney a few paces behind, still somewhat in shock.

There was no way it was that easy. There was just _no way_.

He watched Sheppard's back, and found himself suddenly suspicious. The colonel was hiding something from him. And, Rodney realized with a start, even though he was the one who had been upset, John was the one who shut the conversation down.

_Definitely_ hiding something.

* * *

It was a pretty good reunion in the mess hall— apparently Ronon and Teyla _had_ waited for him, just in case. It made John feel a little less guilty about walking out on Heightmeyer. After all, there was no way Beckett would have let him out after _that_… besides, it might have taken even longer, and then he would have made them wait. And right now, as Teyla and Ronon leapt up to greet him, that was what he cared about, not some psych session.

"John!" "Beckett let you go?"

"Yeah, I was doing really well, even after my session with Heightmeyer, so he agreed to let me come down here and have lunch with you guys," he said, earning a raised eyebrow from Rodney. "So I took a detour," he added under his breath.

Teyla, meanwhile, asked in amazement, "Without the wheelchair?"

"_Wheelchair?_" Rodney demanded, now rounding on John with blatant suspicion.

"Hey, I made it down here, didn't I?"

"Oh, I don't call—"

"_Ah_…" John cut Rodney off, before he amended his words. "More or less."

Teyla and Ronon watched the exchange with a good deal of suspicion themselves. All John could do was smile innocently, which seemed to make them even more suspicious. But, it also brought similar grins to their faces; that was good enough for him.

* * *

"Are you gonna play with that or eat it?"

John tried his best to look indignant at Ronon's question, even though he knew the guy had a point. "I am letting it cool," he stated, tilting his him up a little.

"If you need it to be that cool, I could go get some ice for you," Teyla offered, a grin on her face. John's expression changed into a frown, and he pulled his soup a little closer to himself.

"Funny," he remarked, looking a bit disconcerted, and his friends— all three of them— laughed.

To be honest, he hadn't wanted to eat the soup to begin with— he'd wanted what _they_ were having, but for once Sheppard had let common sense get the best of him, and went for the health-in-a-can, chicken soup instead— though he did indulge in a roll as well, refusing to go for a liquid diet. Now, though, he just plain didn't want to _eat_. That TNP line didn't seem quite so villainous, when his stomach was threatening mutiny.

But he didn't want them getting suspicious again, especially after his knees had almost given out while waiting in the chow line. So, John picked up the spoon and forced himself to gulp some of the stuff down. Then he grimaced— _damn, it is getting cold_.

For a while, he was content to lean on the table, and watch his teammates, who seemed to understand that he wasn't quite up to a lively discussion just yet. He added his own two cents here and there, but mostly… he watched.

Especially Rodney. The man was even more animated than usual, and heck, he had _John_ suspicious. The Canadian scientist had gone from upset and guilt-ridden to laid-back and excited, in the course of about ten minutes. Hell, it had been awkward enough being around Rodney in the first place— especially with his interview with Heightmeyer so fresh in his mind, it was hard to shake everything that had happened between the two of them. As well as… well, things it had made him come to realize about what had happened. So now, _this_, on top of that, was just weirding John out.

Rodney didn't miss the slight tension from the colonel— he was _looking_ for it, sure, but he didn't think that he was just seeing what he wanted to see. Something wasn't right, and he was going to find out. For the moment, though…

"Yeah, some high and mighty pilot you are," Rodney was saying.

"Hey!" John shot back, indignantly.

He was met with half a laugh. "Oh please. The Goa'uld had access to all of your piloting skills and _then_ some, and it got shot down by _Beckett_."

"One— the Jumper was not _shot_ down," John corrected, hotly; "He practically _sat_ the damn thing on top of the other. That is _not_ the same. And _two…_ I was both bleeding _and_ fighting the Goa'uld," he declared.

"What," Ronon asked, "by bleeding?"

"_No_," John replied, pretending to get sullen again as the others laughed. In truth, he was ready to laugh along with them, just because he hadn't in so long.

"Why are you all debating this?" Teyla broke in, though she was still trying to compose herself after Ronon's question. "If Dr. Beckett had not bested the Goa'uld in the Jumper, the results would have been dire."

John just smiled, though a bit of the life went out of his expression. "Yeah," he admitted, slowly, returning his attention to his lunch.

Sensing the mood had died down a little, McKay went to change the subject. "Mm;" Rodney wiped at his mouth with a hand, swallowing whatever it was he had been chewing to get to his question. He turned to face John, who returned the gaze, despite the fact that his shoulders tightened, almost imperceptibly. "Did Lorne stop in and see you?"

Sheppard nodded, a bit distracted, and stirred his soup some more. "Yeah… he seems to be handling my job quite nicely," he added, with a not quite sincere smile.

Teyla rolled her eyes as though he were being ridiculous. "He is not going to replace you, John."

"Yeah, someone even suggested he go out with our team while you were down. He refused," the Satedan concluded. It seemed that act had earned the major a good deal of respect in Ronon's eyes; Sheppard suspected it had more to do with Lorne being afraid that he would conveniently fall down a ravine or something if he went out with this lot in his CO's place. John felt touched, but he also felt that Lorne's concerns might have been justified.

"I dunno," Rodney remarked, waving his fork. "Maybe not on the team, but, he's gotten a taste of power now." He paused to spear something that looked vaguely like a carrot. "Probably gonna have to beat him off when you're ready to come back on duty," he added casually.

"Probably," John agreed, before glancing at Teyla and rolling his eyes towards Rodney. He had to hand her this, she was _good_ at suppressing her laughter, but her lips did press into a thin smile that threatened to break and reveal her amusement.

"So what was that whole argument with Elizabeth about, earlier?" Rodney suddenly questioned, both pointedly and deliberately in front of Ronon and Teyla so John couldn't just ignore him and pretend he hadn't asked.

They were perking up; Ronon looked interested, and Teyla was raising an eyebrow. John gave Rodney a smile that the scientist could see was a little strained, if only because he was expecting it. "What argument?" the man replied, as if he had no clue what Rodney was talking about.

"Don't give me that," Rodney replied, blowing off the colonel's obvious desire to keep his secret, well, secret. "He came storming into Elizabeth's office," he then informed Teyla and Ronon, much to Sheppard's dismay. "He had something from Heightmeyer, a psych eval, probably," he continued conversationally, attacking the lasagna. With a full mouth and kind've distorted; "Was pretty upset about it too." He reached for his drink.

Teyla had turned to John with a new concern in her eyes; John swore silently that he was going to murder Rodney in his sleep, probably with a lemon. In the mean time, he took a large bite out of his roll, watching McKay silently; Teyla was staring at Rodney as well, almost looking as though she were about to rebuke him. "You should not press John for information he wishes to keep private."

"Yeah," Ronon agreed with a frown. "Like you all say, 'don't ask, don't tell'."

Suddenly, Rodney was spewing his drink back into its cup and John was choking on his food; Ronon started pounding the latter on the back, looking alarmed, while Rodney broke down in laughter. After a second, John waved Ronon off. "Not… _quite_…" he answered, continuing to cough weakly for a bit, before he seemed okay, even if he was wheezing a little. "I _believe_ what you're trying to say is, _ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies._"

"Oh, I don't know," Rodney threw out there, jovially; apparently, the possibility of Sheppard choking wasn't enough to keep him from finding this hysterically funny— as it was, he was barely containing his laughter now, and was shaking from the effort. "I think they're equally applicable in Sheppard's case."

_Oh, definitely going to murder Rodney,_ John thought venomously. _And forget the lemon_. He was gonna shove a freaking _grapefruit_ down McKay's throat.

"But no, I mean— come on, it had to be something really bad;" …And, Rodney just went right on. "And we aren't just talking 'weird interpretations of dreams bad', come on, this _is_ Sheppard. So we should probably be worried." Oh, and just to make things better, Teyla was starting to hesitate— what, did she think Rodney had a _point?_ "And honestly, I'd rather be the jerk that's pressing him to spill than not know until he goes crazy and kills somebody," the scientist finished off, all too cheerful, gesturing with his fork again for emphasis. But, to John's chagrin, now _both_ Ronon and Teyla were looking like they might actually agree with him!

"She put me on _suicide watch!_" John suddenly snapped. In an instant, the table was silent, except for the fork that fell out of Rodney's hand. He flashed a sarcastic smile. "So I guess the only one you have to worry about me killing is _me_."

And with that, he pushed away from the table, abandoning his food and his friends before they could even protest; a second later, he was through the door and into the hallway.

For a long few seconds, none of them spoke. And then—

"Shit." McKay closed his eyes, and rested his forehead in his palms.

"Suicide watch… what does that mean?" Ronon asked the scientist.

It was like Rodney hadn't even heard him; "_Shit!_" When he looked up, he looked fairly distraught, and after a moment, he pushed out from the table as well and hastily followed after Sheppard.

Ronon was about to do the same, when Teyla caught his arm. She then looked up at him— the Athosian looked disturbed. _Very_ disturbed, though she didn't seem to fully understand the implications either. Even so; "Give them a minute."

Slowly, Ronon nodded, and seated himself once more. Suddenly, he just wasn't hungry.

* * *

McKay rushed after his teammate, cursing at himself mentally. _Great, idiot. You wanted to know why he was uncomfortable with you— gee, wonder if it's 'cause you pull stunts like __**this?**_ He passed an outer door, before quickly coming to a stop and backtracking.

Sure enough, out there— alone— was Sheppard.

"Colonel!" Rodney cried as the door opened, sounding far too relieved— John turned part of the way at first, but then catching McKay's tone, grimaced, and turned back towards the ocean. Wincing, Rodney stepped over the threshold, trying to think of a way to repair the damage.

"What, thought I was going to throw myself over?" The humor in his voice was dry, and he was probably just a little miffed at what Rodney had just implied.

"No!... Maybe," Rodney admitted. "Well come on," he said, indignant, as John gave him another dry look, "How am I supposed to know if it's justified? I've hardly gotten to speak to you the whole time you've been awake!"

Sheppard replied evenly; "And whose fault is that?"

Rodney raised one finger to contest that, before he realized the answer. "Touché," he replied instead. Then, he sighed. "Look, I… I wouldn't have done it if I hadn't known there was something _wrong_. Between _us_," he added, when John wouldn't reply. "I didn't realize…"

The other man let out a bedraggled sigh. Funny, how he had thought the same thing, earlier. And now, he found _himself_ the one trying to avoid McKay.

"Rodney, we're fine," he assured the other man.

"No we're not, we're not _fine_— no, look, will you shut up and listen for a minute?" he demanded as John tried to cut back into the conversation. "I mean… for God's sake, I _shot_ you… Not once, but _three times!_ You could be _dead_ or—"

"You did what you had to," John cut in, speaking very firmly, as Rodney started to work himself up into hysterics.

The physicist's expression morphed into an open glare, though he settled back down. "God, did you always want to be a martyr when you grew up?" He rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Remind me to never let you near anything long and sharp enough for you to impale yourself on." Then, realizing what he had said— _damn it, you did it __**again!**_— he bit his tongue.

"Yeah… well it's not like you have to worry about that now," John shot back, with an almost… _disgusted_… look on his face.

Incensed; "Look, I'm not the one who issued the damn watch order, so quit biting my head off!"

"I'm not going to try and _kill myself!_" Unexpectedly, the colonel let out a dry, harsh laugh that sounded a little high. "Like I'd be able to bring myself to do that… God," he muttered, shaking his head and continuing to laugh in that strange, pained way. "Of course _you'd_ think I could…"

"What?" Rodney said, after a beat. Offense was mixed with surprise, as he ran over what Sheppard had said mentally. _What the hell is he talking about?_ "Why would I… How is this _my_ fault?"

"I didn't _say_ it was your fault," John grated, but McKay was slightly unconvinced, given the way in which he said it. "I don't want to talk about it!"

"Tough!"

Sheppard shot him an angry glare. "Tough?" he echoed, sarcastically.

McKay lifted his chin, just a little defiantly. "Yes. Start talking, or… Or I call Carson."

After a moment, John just shook his head and looked away. "Go right ahead."

"What… really?" He had expected that to _work—_ crap, what was he _on_ about?, Rodney wondered. "God, _what_ is your _problem?_"

John let out a long, weary breath. Apparently, even if the threat of Beckett being sicked on him wasn't enough, he just wasn't up to being pestered by Rodney nonstop. "It was that whole stupid interview with Heightmeyer… She… she kept going at how I felt about letting the parasite in, and after it was gone, and…" He shook his head, like he was trying to shoo away a fly or a disturbing thought. "She made me realize… I felt like I made a _mistake_. And I _hate_ myself for thinking that," John trailed off into a whisper. Letting his eyes slip shut, he turned away, head hanging.

At last, McKay understood— it took a second, but then his eyes were widening in recognition— that hate in the colonel's attitude wasn't for _him_… but it obviously wasn't just for the Goa'uld either. Self-loathing was a strange expression to see on John Sheppard's face, and the despair it mixed with… well, it frightened Rodney a little. 'Cause it wasn't like Sheppard was known for acting on his emotions. Or just doing plain _stupid shit_. _Maybe Heightmeyer was right after all_.

He tried to think of something to say; taking a breath to steel himself, Rodney started; "…That's what this is _about?_ You, you… you wouldn't have sacrificed yourself again? Whoop de doo," he said, hiding the slight disturbance with the sarcasm. "I wouldn't have sacrificed myself _once_, so you've got me beat _there_, happy?" Sheppard shot McKay a droll look, before rolling his eyes and looking away— something about it made Rodney wonder if that wasn't it. Everything Sheppard had been doing to him, how he'd been acting… It finally clicked with Rodney. "No…You regret it," he realized, a bit numbly. "You regret doing what you did… for me."

His body faced away, Sheppard buried his head in his hands, before leaning his elbows onto the railing and running his hands through his hair. McKay thought he could hear heavy breaths coming from the man, and wondered if he shouldn't be trying to reassure Sheppard. Honestly, he was still trying to come to terms with the realization himself. _He feels like saving me… no, like giving himself __**up**_, he corrected,_ was a mistake…_ He ran a hand through his own hair, noticing dimly that it was shaking.

It was easy to see why the colonel had indulged in self-hate— he must have felt like he had completely betrayed McKay by wishing he had never stepped up the way he did.

Sheppard turned to face McKay at last, expression resigned into an unreadable tableau. "Yeah." Well, that was redundant— he had figured _that_ part out already.

McKay surprised the both of them as he suddenly rolled his eyes. "Oh, join the club!" He didn't have to force the sarcasm very far; in fact, the shock he had felt at first was quickly giving way to exasperation— and the look on John's face almost made up for it entirely. His voice had just the hint of a tremble as he said, "_I_ regret you doing it," but it seemed the colonel was still too stunned to notice. "It was completely insane and idiotic— let's give the evil alien access to the strongest ATA gene in the galaxy. What were you _thinking?_"

By this time, Sheppard's pained expression had resolved itself into incredulity, with the tiniest hint of a smile. "You're right," he agreed sardonically, "what _was_ I doing trying to save your life?" still obviously confused about why he was suddenly being _berated_.

"Yes, yes," McKay continued dismissively. "So you wouldn't let a Goa'uld into your head one more time in an attempt to be brainlessly heroic— congratulations, Colonel." By now, Rodney wasn't even trying to hide his sarcasm, "for once you're acting _completely normal_. So quit angsting like an emo teenager. The important thing is… you saved my life," he said, a little stiffly. "And you don't regret _that_, regardless of whatever sacrifices you wish you hadn't made… You _don't_ regret that, right?" He seemed to all of a sudden remember Sheppard's statement of a few seconds ago; John actually had to laugh at his expression.

Clapping Rodney on the shoulder, he said, "Course not. Who would I blatantly antagonize then?" A wide grin split his face— McKay had to wonder if he wasn't forcing it, and more than just a little— even for Sheppard, this was too sudden a mood change.

"Well, I just wanted to say… thank you, and… I'm actually a little relieved. That you wouldn't… do that, you know, again. What you did." Sheppard cast him an unreadable look; perhaps he needed to get on with it. "Because… well, because honestly I felt really guilty about the parasite being in you when it should have been in me. And then… everything that happened… thereafter."

McKay cleared his throat and shifted back and forth awkwardly. It didn't help that Sheppard continued to stare at him with that same strange expression… it made Rodney nervous. At long last; "You couldn't have done anything."

A derisive snort was not the reply the colonel had expected. "Yes, well, neither could you, as you obviously have some mental instability that predisposes you towards valiantly suicidal tendencies."

"…_Obviously_."

"Yes, anyways, I think we should both agree to just not feel guilty." There was a long pause. "I mean, this whole situation has to… cancel itself out or something."

"Just like that?"

Another awkward silence. Then, Rodney gave a decisive nod. Then a not-so-decisive shrug. Who was he kidding, there was no way he was going to be able to forgive himself, even if Sheppard did— but he didn't want to see the colonel doing something stupid to himself. Personally, he thought Heightmeyer's suicide watch was entirely warranted, he'd just never admit it in front of Sheppard— not if he wanted to keep both of his legs unbroken.

As John continued to stare him down, the scientist shifted uncomfortably. Damn it, he wasn't a good liar; it didn't help that Sheppard was an _excellent_ liar, and consequently seemed to know whenever Rodney was trying to hide something.

At last, Rodney couldn't take it, and just burst out.

"So, what, you think you'd never try it now," he started, startling John just a little. "What, because you hate that you gave yourself over to the Goa'uld? You think this is about you not wanting to get _hurt?_ Please!" He gestured wildly, like it was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. "You're a lemming! Even an evil, alien, snake-parasite can't change that. That's like, fundamental Sheppard."

"Is this supposed to make me feel better?" John demanded.

Ignoring him completely; "I _know_ you. And I know you would _still_ try and save someone, or protect someone, even to the point of stupidity, even at your own expense." Rodney began to glare at Sheppard now, tone full of accusation. "Why wouldn't you tell me what was wrong, then?; what, because you were being selfish? Or because you didn't want _me_ to have to deal with it?" John opened his mouth to try to cut in and answer, but should have known better; Rodney cut him off, with "You _know _I'm right!" The colonel closed his mouth, glancing down, and McKay paused for a beat. "…So maybe you wouldn't take a Goa'uld for me," he started again. "Sheppard— John…" Funny, he'd never been awkward using people's given names… until now, apparently. The topic at hand didn't help any, he was sure; the scientist continued, uncomfortably. "I _know_ you'd still try to save me. Whatever it took, would never stop trying. I don't… _doubt_ you," he said at last, fumbling over the words a little. They sounded strange coming from _him_. Quietly, now; "…I don't want you to do something stupid, either. And yes, I mean kill yourself," he added after a moment, sounding a little perturbed.

"Rodney—"

"I know what you're going to say," Rodney cut back in, "you're going to say you won't, but it _wasn't_ fear of dying, it was just the Goa'uld—"

John stopped him before he could get going again by grabbing his wrist. "I know," he stated simply.

The two held each others' gazes for a moment, before Rodney tried to keep going. "…Look, if you keep beating yourself up over it like this, how long until you really do try and hurt yourself?" he asked, in a strangely small voice; _God, he's actually… afraid, for me_, John realized— "And then after everything you've had to go through, because of what I did—" and now Rodney couldn't stop even if he'd had conscious control of what he was saying; as it was, everything in him that had threatened to bubble over this whole time was just spilling out— "and after all the progress you've made, you'd still end up hurt or dead or—"

"Rodney!" Sheppard moved his hand from Rodney's wrist to his shoulder— "How the hell do you get on _me_ for not talking, and then… _this?_" he asked, incredulously, waving a hand vaguely between them.

"…What?"

"You're _clearly_ upset about something that's not me," John pointed out.

"Clearly…" Rodney gave the other man a perplexed look, trying not to sound disturbed. "Why are we suddenly talking about me?"

John gave half a shrug. "You didn't think I'd let you get away with making this entirely about _me_, did you? …So, what… the whole thing in the Jumper?" he hazarded. "…You want to talk?"

Rodney seemed bewildered for a moment, before he refocused. "No… No, look, with me, it's… it's over, it's done with, I can't change it."

"No…" John agreed. "You can't."

"Just what if it happens again?" Rodney asked all of a sudden, anxiously. "I mean, your life was in my hands and I shot you and almost killed you, and—"

"Rodney;" John used the tone of voice you usually reserved for a child when they knew they had done something wrong and didn't want to look at you. "I trusted you…" The other man pressed his lips together, and rolled his eyes, glancing upwards, but John could see he was upset, past that sardonic smile. "…And I _still_ trust you."

McKay snapped his head back down, staring at Sheppard in amazed disbelief. "What… even after…"

"Even after," John assured him as the other man trailed off.

"Huh." He paused, seeming to go over this again. "So let me get this straight. When you do something that ends up hurting you, it's bad. When I do something that ends up hurting you, it's good…?"

"Funny how that works out." Despite John's smile— and for the first time today, Rodney noticed it looked genuine— despite that, Rodney wasn't laughing. A bit more sedately, John added, "I'd rather you than it."

"I'd rather not me," Rodney pointed out quickly, raising one finger. "I mean, not _it_," he added after realizing what he'd implied. "Just… not me either."

John held up both hands, and raised his eyebrows. "Hey, I'd rather not get hurt at all. So we _agree_."

"Funny how that works out," Rodney echoed.

That impish grin was the only reply he got, and for a moment, Rodney considered a cool, sarcastic comment, before he realized that John's smile had faded and yet he still hadn't said anything. Actually, he looked pretty pale, and weak, and—

"Sheppard?" Rodney asked tentatively.

Suddenly, John felt his knees give way, and just caught himself on the railing—

"_Shit!_ Sheppard!" The colonel let out a long hiss of air, afraid that if he opened his mouth any further he'd start cussing at the top of his lungs— _damn_, he could feel those bullet holes _now_. Then Rodney was at his side, under one of his arms, helping ease him to the ground. "Are you okay?"

"What do you think?" John said through gritted teeth. Once he was down on the ground and the pressure from his arms was let up, the soldier sighed, painfully. "Look, I'm all right," he told the scientist, who was now pacing a tight circle on the balcony floor. "I just got a little dizzy and caught myself at a bad angle. I'm going to live," he assured the man.

Rodney just gestured idly with one hand, still looking concerned. "I'm sure you are, but— maybe I should call the infirmary anyways…"

"I'm _fine_, Rodney! Hell, you're as bad as Beckett!" John shot up at the scientist, who could be described as doing no other thing but _fretting_.

"You're fine, yes, obviously not _fine_," Rodney was muttering to himself, "all things considered, but for now you're—"

"_Fine_. I'm _okay._ Geez…"

"Yes, yes, you're okay… though, I mean, over all—"

"_Rodney!_" John cried, growing exasperated.

"I'm just _saying_," the man replied, indignantly.

Looking both bewildered and incredulous at once; "Saying _what?_" John demanded.

The scientist shot him a dirty look. "I'm saying, that despite being in a good state at the time of discussion, you really can't be called _okay_. Neither of us can," he added, muttering. A beat passed, then; "I mean… things between _us_ still aren't really… okay, are they?"

"Well, I mean, I wouldn't say things are _okay_…" John started, looking like he was weighing the options. "For one, I don't think I can get back up," John admitted, and Rodney had to fight the natural instinct to give him an amused, disparaging look. "But as far as between _us_… Well hell, _I'd_ say they're looking pretty good," he said, with a bit of a shrug.

"Yeah?"

Rodney seemed pretty hopeful. And John saw no reason not to be… if he was honest about it, he was feeling exactly the same way… that same exact worry that things weren't going to turn out quite right. The anxiety. The hope you almost didn't want to have, in case you were wrong.

John never got the chance to answer though, as the sudden sound of someone talking, quite heatedly, actually, broke in— Rodney flinched and pulled one hand up to his ear reflexively— which is when John realized it was Rodney's _radio_ that he was hearing.

The brogue that came through— livid, from the sound of it— was unmistakably Carson.

"Uh, I, uh… don't know what you're talking about," Rodney was saying.

"_Don't give me that crap, Rodney, I know he was with you, I talked to Dr. Weir. Where is he now?_"

John didn't have his radio, and yet _he_ could hear the angry Scot perfectly. So he was wincing a little bit, both for Rodney _and_ his eardrums… and the trouble he was going to be in when Carson found him.

Rodney seemed to be thinking along the same lines; silently, he watched John deflate a little, obviously not looking forward to the reaming-out he was going to get. Actually, he was paying more attention to the colonel than he was to Beckett, so it took him a moment to realize the aforementioned had stopped talking.

"Yeah, actually, you know what? He stormed off in the middle of lunch. Said something about heading over to the east pier…? Good luck with that!" he tacked on the end, as Carson got off the frequency, muttering and as angry as a wet cat.

John raised one eyebrow. "_East_ pier?" he repeated.

"Well, you know," Rodney replied, waving one hand vaguely. "Minor geographical error… _He_ obviously heard me wrong."

"_Obviously_… I mean, it couldn't have been _your_ mistake," John said, voice laden with irony.

Rodney snorted. "Of course not."

Watching his teammate for a long moment, John then just shook his head, a wide grin splitting his features, and he leaned back against the railing, resting his head against one of the posts. Rodney came up and leaned on the upper rail where he stood; both just enjoying the scenery and the breeze and the peace before they got caught.

It was definitely going to get worse before it got better, John thought, his grin becoming wry for a moment, when he thought of how Carson was probably going to strap him down and force feed him through a tube in his nose after this.

But it _was_ going to get better. _He_ was going to get better… maybe slowly. Maybe he wasn't going to have a choice, especially if the Scottish tyrant had his way, he realized with a bit of a grimace.

John closed his eyes for a moment, abandoning that thought and letting the wind roll across him; letting it play in his hair and tickle his face where he was in desperate need of a shave. The hair on his arms stood on end in the coolness over the water— the smell of which permeated the air more sharply than he'd really taken the time to notice, of late. And through all of it, John couldn't help but marvel at just every sensation and feeling that was all his and just how _alive_ he felt.

_I can live with that,_ he decided at last, opening his eyes to take in the scenery one more time. _I really can_.

**END**

* * *

A/N: And, here we are— the end at last! If you were wondering at all over the past week why this was taking so long, well… There ya' go.

And, you _did_ just sat through all of that, so I won't keep you long, I promise. Just a few notes to finish us off:

Thanks, to: Deana, Silverthreads, flah7, ruthiemac, Alpha Pegasi, Mercury's Winter, krysalys, Gracie, Gingercake, Emma, Hanmyo, gabumon, Raven2004, wnii, tracy, twinchaosblade, 'lemons and wraith oh my'— and to everyone who has ever stopped in, glanced this over, and decided to stop and read a while. You guys have no idea how great it is to see the hit counts soar like they do— not saying that I honestly need the ego trip, but y'all make me feel the story is so well liked I get teary-eyed. :)

I hope to see some of you in the future! I don't know if my next piece is going to be SG-1 or Atlantis, so keep an eye out for me on both. Whatever comes next, for a little while, they'll probably be shorter (okay, _definitely_ shorter) than this one— think oneshots and single-digits in chapters. I don't know that I can keep another work-in-progress going, especially on a daily schedule, these days. As has happened too often with Ophidia, I fall behind, miss updates, and y'all are the ones who have to deal with it— doesn't mean I'm about to stop writing as much as I can, though!

And let me tell you, it feels _weird_ to be finished.

Here's to keeping the weirdness alive! And most of all, to you, faithful readers and friends— ;D

::DemonicK


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